


Game of Blame

by MalTease



Series: Game of Blame Series [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalTease/pseuds/MalTease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <a href="http://s1179.photobucket.com/user/rosalinabambina/media/Game-of-Blame_banner-_zpsbdb4e29c.jpg.html"></a>
    <br/>
    <img/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>Peeta and Katniss lose their child due to tragic circumstances, and lose each other in a spiral of hurt and blame. When their marriage is seriously threatened, Katniss finds that she needs to choose between throwing it all away, or seeking forgiveness for her husband, and for herself.<p>Warning: Child loss/Stillbirth.<br/>Banner by Ro Nordmann.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [thebluelake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebluelake/pseuds/thebluelake) in the [Hunger_Games_Prompt_Exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Hunger_Games_Prompt_Exchange) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
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> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Katniss and Peeta - most likely in an AU setting and married - one of them cheats on the other after going through something traumatic/problematic that affects their relationship. A story of them recovering and rebuilding their relationship.

 

Life goes on as normal outside our window. The shops are open, the streets bustle with traffic, and everyone goes about their business, as if nothing happened, as if my life had not ended, as if my heart had not lost any happiness it could have ever hoped for on that goddamn morning just three days ago.

 

I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Life did go on as it always had for everyone except for me and my husband. But just as outside the window the world lives on, within the four walls of our flat everything has stopped. Our little home should be full of soft whimperings, strange smells, unfamiliar sounds. It should be full of slowly deflating balloons and colourful, happy clutter. Just as my husband promised me so many months ago, our tiny home should be full of love and happiness.

 

There is nothing though. Nothing in the hall, nothing in the rooms, nothing in my heart. Our flat is empty, emptier than it had ever been, since that horrible morning where everything went wrong. Where instead of giving birth, my body denied life to the child I carried in my womb for nearly nine months. Something went wrong during labour, I was told by the doctor. A knot in the umbilical cord that denied my baby oxygen. It’s uncommon, he said, there was nothing that could be done. It was not my fault, not anyone’s, he stressed. Not anyone’s fault, but it had still happened to us, and the only thing I feel now is regret that I did not follow our child and joined him in his grave. All I can remember is the crippling pain, my screams, the flurry of activity around me, my husband’s frantic questions, and my son’s silence. My baby’s silence that seemed to bounce off the walls of the delivery room as it sank into my heart. All the hours of agony I went through only served to ensure my dead son’s body could form part of a world he would never see. I could not even open my eyes as I felt my husband collapse in grief beside me as he clutched at my hand. As newborns wailed in the rooms around us, the wails in our room came from our silent baby’s parents.

 

And that’s when I shut down.

 

I refused to see anyone for the two days I spent in hospital, including Peeta, who I knew was always outside my door, waiting for me to accept the love and comfort I knew he wanted so much to offer. A few hours after labour our doctor came again to my room to recommend counselling, and I made the effort to speak enough words to send him to hell. It’s not counselling that I want. What I want is my baby, my little one who my body failed to keep safe until he was ready to see the world. I want the son that my husband asked for for so many years before I could agree to it.

 

_A baby will fill our life with joy_. That’s what he always told me.

 

And now I’m home, staring outside the window watching as life goes on without my child. The quiet of our home is enough for me to hear Peeta in the next room, the room that should have been the nursery, as he empties the drawers and folds the little onesies that we had bought just a few weeks ago for our child. I hear my husband sob, but I try to block the sound.  I don’t want to talk to my husband; I don’t want to talk about the child I didn’t want, but who I now grieve with every stabbing beat of my heart. I don’t want to talk to the man who filled my mind with fairy tales of happiness and dreams of the future.

 

There is no baby to fill our life with joy. There is no joy, no life, no colour, no feeling...but even though my body is numb, it apparently is not numb enough to dull the pain, the guilt, and the anger.

 

Our child died inside me. Maybe I failed him for not wanting him enough, for realising too late how much I was ready to love him, too late to fight for him as much as I could have. It’s my fault for not fighting for him enough, but I also scream to myself that my misery is also Peeta’s fault for wanting a baby so badly. My husband had wanted a child so much; he told me that he would be an addition to our happy ending. The only ending which I see in my life now is that of misery. The only truth I see is that there is no happiness, no light, just death and loss.

 

_He will fill our life with joy_ he said.

 

Liar.

 

 

* * *

 

The weeks that follow our return from the hospital are a routine of silence, tension and strained cohabitation. I refuse to answer texts, phone calls, or emails from anyone, and I leave it up to Peeta to deal with the offers of help and comfort that no one really means or expects us to accept. I jump back into my job as a columnist as soon as I can, working full hours to churn out daily opinion pieces and to keep the online blog version of my column as active as possible. I slave away extra hours in my cubicle, trying to ensure that I spend as little possible time at home in that silence that replaces all that should have been. Peeta runs the coffee shop that he co-owns with his brothers in the old city centre. At first he made sure to spend the evenings with me, trying to coax me into talking, sharing, or even touching without feeling like two total strangers in the house. However, after days of trying and being met with my stony reactions, he started taking on his old evening shifts, which means that at least two or three times a week I do not share any waking hours with my husband. The days where we actually are at home at the same time are spent in separate rooms - me dissing some politician or celebrity on my blog, Peeta in the nursery, thinking, painting, or possible praying.

 

In fact, just as I bury my grief behind an impenetrable wall of coldness, Peeta tries to find solace in prayer. A staunch Roman Catholic, Peeta owes his religious devotion to his grandparents, who emigrated from Belgium and who refused to give up their faith when settling in the city. When I met Peeta, when we were both sixteen and I was employed as a part time waitress at the coffee shop that at the time belonged to his father, he was still a shy, reserved altar boy who served mass every Sunday and who played the guitar at prayer-meetings organised by his mother for the Belgian and Italian communities of the neighbourhood. I was a horrible waitress, but I still caught the eye of the shy owner’s son who spent his evenings in the kitchen or at the cash register. His shy smiles and tentative touches allowed me to catch on very quickly, and during the summer before our senior year of high school we lost our virginity to each other in the back of his Focus. To my embarrassment, for the first few weeks of our young relationship he used to go to Confession after every time we had sex, until his daily visits to the Confessional became ridiculous and Father Plutarch ended up calling us both before him, telling Peeta that when he declared in prayer that he repented and would sin no more, he actually had to _mean_ it.  Peeta had blushed to the root, spent the evening with me being tormented by an appropriate amount of Catholic guilt until I rolled my eyes and gave him his first ever blow job while threatening to never do it again if he went to confess it. Father Plutarch got a permanent respite from Peeta’s sex life ever since.  

 

I cannot say that my presence in Peeta’s life really did his Catholicism any good. As a convinced atheist, I tend to view my husband’s beliefs as nothing more than fairy tales, and I’ve been guilty more than once of having teased him for his practices, such as setting up a nativity scene in our living room for Christmas, making the sign of the cross every time we leave home, and his indignant rants after reading _The Da Vinci Code_ and _Angels and Demons_. I do not share his beliefs, but his faith is strong enough for my views  and my teasing to never be really an issue in our relationship, but at the same time I’m also furiously jealous of the fact that he seems to find solace in prayer, while I fight every minute of the day with the constant reminder of my failure. Every minute of the day I need to find a reason for what happened, a culprit, a person to blame. So I blame my husband for wanting our son, even though he knew that I was not ready. I blame him for not listening to me when I asked for more time. If had respected my wishes, none of this would have happened. So I blame him for making me agree to try for and I blame him for giving me the baby that I ultimately failed to give birth to.

 

It’s easier to blame Peeta, because the alternative would be to blame myself.

 

It’s not that I don’t love Peeta anymore. He and I have been together for so long that the notion of not loving him is completely inconceivable. In fact, I don’t recognise myself in my complete rejection of my husband, but yet I cannot help it. Even though he does not ask me for sex, even the simplest of touches from him causes me to flinch, and there are nights where he doesn’t even try to join me in our bed anymore. He’s unhappy, and so am I, but I don’t have the strength or the motivation to do anything about it, and the more time passes, the more distant we become from each other.

 

Since words and physical affection seem to have no discernible effect on me, Peeta tries to leave me notes at home, telling me how much he loves me, how brave and strong I am, and how it kills him to see me reject both him and his love. He pleads for me to give us a chance at happiness again and asks me to tell him what he needs to do for me to accept him back as my husband. His words hurt, the sadness in his eyes hurts, but I do not have the strength to react, to come out of this bubble of numbness that I have wrapped myself in. The minute I reach out to my husband is the moment where I would have to deal with the pain of the loss of my child. I am not brave and strong as he sees me. In fact, i’m actually frightened, devastated, and too cowardly to allow myself to feel. The more he loves me, the more undeserving I see myself, and the more convinced I become that my husband doesn’t really know me. If he did, he would have realised by now that there is really nothing to love in me anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

The world collapses around me again one evening when I come home from the office and hear, to my great surprise, voices in the kitchen. It’s been a while since there was any kind of noise in our house and it jarrs my ears, especially since one of the voices is that of my husband, speaking in a tone that seems far too jaded and lifeless to actually come from him.

 

“I don’t know what to do anymore, I can’t reach out to her, she blocked me out completely,” I catch him saying, his voice breaking with emotion.

 

“Son, Katniss is a strong, proud woman. She -”

 

I burst into the kitchen angrily and discover that the unexpected guest is actually Father Plutarch, Peeta’s confessor. They both start and look at me with the guilty looks of two people who are conspiring against me.

 

“What the hell are you doing here and how dare you talk about me behind my back?” I growl at the priest who recovers himself and matches my glare with a steady look.

 

“Your husband called me,” he explains calmly. “He has asked for my help because he doesn’t know how to reach -”

 

“Out for me. Yes I heard that,” I finish in clipped tones as I turn coldly to Peeta, who clutches at the kitchen chair, physically pale. “Thanks for coming, but this is a problem that my husband and I can handle alone,” I continue as I move from the door and invite the priest to leave with a gesture of my hand.

 

“That’s the problem Katniss, I don’t think we can handle this alone,” Peeta interjects quietly. “I don’t know what to. I don’t even know if you even want to be married to me anymore at this point.”

 

I swallow a lump in my throat and look away. I am miserable, distant, and numb, but the idea of actually leaving Peeta never really occurred to me. I’ve been with him for more than 10 years, and being away from him is impossible. But yes, I can understand how such an idea might have crossed his mind.

 

“I never considered leaving you,” I reply softly. “You didn’t need to call your priest here though,” I continue with some heat. “What the hell does he know about our marriage? About any marriage, really?”

 

Father Plutarch smiles at me gently and I feel like I want to gouge his eyes out. “Katniss, I have given advice to many couples in need, especially young ones like you,” he answers in what he possibly believes is to be a kind tone, but which for me grates like chalk on blackboard. “The first years of marriage are possibly the hardest, and I do have a particular interest in seeing you both go through this patch. I’m the one who married you after all!”

 

“Not by my choice. If it were up to me we would have got married in front of the Justice of the Peace, without the religious bullshit,” I argue sullenly. Somehow I suddenly feel the need to be spiteful.

 

“You make it sound as if I pushed you into this!” My husband glares at me, and I return his look with interest.

 

“What makes you think you didn’t?!”

 

“Good, good. At least you seem to be talking now,” interjects Father Plutarch with a smile, much to my annoyance.

 

“Shut up. This has nothing to do with you,” I snap.

 

“Katniss, please allow me to help you find comfort in your marriage,” he pleads and I stare at him in disbelief. Is there something in the vows of priests that includes not being able to take a hint? “The death of your child is a tragedy, but you can learn to find peace again in knowing that your baby is -”

 

“Do not _dare_ to mention my baby again,” I snarl menacingly.

 

Peeta throws a kitchen towel in the direction of the sink, knocking down a mug and making me jump at the sudden noise. “Gabriel is not only your baby,” he cries angrily. “He is my child too!”

 

_Gabriel. Gabriel_.

 

I can physically feel my heart break at the mention of our son’s name. I had never thought of it, never mentioned it, never made my dead child real with the name that we had planned to give him. The name that was embroidered by my mother on his blanket, and on the paw of the teddy bear that my sister Prim had sent to us by post from whatever country Rory is now stationed in.

 

_Gabriel._

 

“Don’t say his name,” I whisper. “Don’t.”

 

The seconds that follow are silent, except for my heavy breathing and that of my husband as he angrily picks up the pieces of the broken mug.

 

“Katniss, Peeta, your son is at peace and in a better place, and it is this thought that should be the source of any comfort you might wish to seek from God,” Father Plutarch begins.

 

The mention of Peeta’s god angers me and hits me in the face as a dismissal of my convictions. “I don’t know what you’re doing here. Our child was not baptised, and according to your Church, he has no place in heaven,” I reply dully.

 

Father Plutarch hesitates and steals a look at Peeta, whose lips have now thinned into a white line. “Katniss, Gabriel... is baptised,” he replies softly, looking at anything but me. “I - I baptised him in the delivery room, it’s something the Church allows, in emergency cases and -” his voice trails off when he sneaks a look at me and catches sight of my face.

 

As he spoke, a flash of memory comes to my mind. Of me, lying in bed barely conscious from pain and fatigue, screaming as my baby does not emit a sound, and lashing out at the nurses who try to sedate me. I suddenly remember seeing my husband in a corner of the room, pouring water on the head of our silent child, tears streaming down his face as he mumbles “ _I baptise you my son, my sweet sweet son, in the name of the Father … and of the Son and of_ …”.

 

He actually had a moment with our child before me, held him first in his hands, spoke to him without me. He created an opportunity for himself to do something for our son. An opportunity which I was denied.

 

“What the FUCK?” I scream before turning to the priest, “and you, GET OUT!”

 

One look at me, trembling with rage, is enough. Father Plutarch leaves our flat before I can turn to my husband and continue screaming at him. “How dare you?! How dare you _baptise_ our son without telling me?!”

 

Peeta bristles and keeps his tone as neutral as possible in his reply. “You would have said no, Katniss.”

 

“Of _course_ I would have said no! You know how I feel about your religious fairy tales,” I lash rather cruelly. I’m beyond caring at this point.

 

“Go to hell. I respect your views and I ask you to respect mine!”

 

“Not when you decide to baptise my son without telling me!”

 

“What difference does it make to you?” he yells back. “You would have said no just for the sake of it, while in my case baptising my son ensured that he’d be ...he’d be…safe...” he trails off without exactly knowing how to end his explanation.

 

“Are you saying that just because I don’t believe in god I’m a bad parent?” I exclaim in disbelief.

 

“Bulllshit. That’s not what I’m saying and you know it!” he scoffs as he walks around me and exits the kitchen to walk to the nursery.

 

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” I warn as I follow him into the room that should have been our son’s. I stop with a gasp and lean against the wall as I take the scene in. Peeta has left everything unchanged. The bed, the blanket, the teddy bear, the little blue curtains...everything has remained the same as when I dusted the room a day before I started my labour.

 

Peeta and I stare at each other for a few seconds, our faces mirroring each other’s hurt, sadness and weariness. I breathe deeply and reach out my hand for his. He walks tentatively towards me and from the corner of my eye, I see a picture frame on the dresser, showcasing a drawing of a baby, a smiling black haired baby with grey eyes in the painting style that I would recognise anywhere.

 

Peeta has drawn a picture of our son, but it cannot be him; how could he know what his smile would look like, what colour his hair would grow to be, his eyes?

 

“What the hell is this?” I whisper. Peeta grimaces and looks away. “What the _hell_ is this Peeta?” I cry louder, moving towards the picture frame and grabbing it roughly. This seems to startle my husband, who glares at me angrily.

 

“What do you think it is? It’s our son,” he snaps.

 

“We have no son,”  I growl at him. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. The anger and the pain and the guilt are closing up on my lungs and I hear myself gasping shallow breaths as I try to keep from falling apart.

 

“Gabriel will always be our son, whether you want to admit it or not,” my husband replies angrily. I can’t look at his eyes anymore, I don’t want to see the accusing stare that I’m sure he is throwing at me.  I avoid looking at him and throw the frame to the floor, wincing as the sound of glass breaking reverberates around the room.

 

“There is no Gabriel!” I scream in finality. And in the seconds of silence that follows my action, I take a look at my husband’s face, a good look at it, for the first time since we lost our child. He is not accusatory. He is not angry, not sad. He is devastated.

 

He bends down and cradles the frame, removes the picture and folds it with a tenderness that makes me want to double up in pain. “You’ve gone too far,” he finally whispers, and walks out of the room.

 

I did. I did go too far. And I didn’t mean it. God, Peeta’s god, knows that I didn’t mean it. Our baby, our baby...how could I have slammed the picture of my child to the floor? How could I have denied his existence? I reach out to Peeta, my tears blinding me as they stream down my face, but the minute my hand makes contact with his arm he shrugs it off angrily and reaches for his keys.

 

“Where are you going?” I ask tearfully.

 

“Away from you. Fuck this, fuck you. Fuck our marriage. I’m done,” he tells me in a cold, final tone that is not his own. And he walks out.

 

It takes me a minute, and the sound of the wheels of his car screeching down our street, to pull out my phone to frantically call him, but the sound of his ring tone from the kitchen tells me that he left it behind, and that I have absolutely no way of knowing where he is going.

 

Are we done? Is this it? Have I finally managed to drive away the man who loved me unconditionally for more than ten years? It can’t be. I cannot possibly imagine a life without him, without his presence, his strength, his warmth. The hate and disgust I feel towards myself scares me, and I realise that even in the past months, where I shut him out completely, I was still counting on the fact that he would be there always, in the background, waiting for me to welcome him back in my life. To hear him, to believe him when he said that life could be good again for us. And now, no more. He’s finally done with me - he’s finally seen me as I really am.

 

I take a deep breath and refuse, with my final ounce of inner strength, to give up. With a broom I sweep the broken glass from the nursery, and rush out to the hardware store to find a replacement. When I return home, there is still no sign of Peeta, so I fix the frame, and snuggle up on the armchair in the living room, and clutch my phone to my chest, in the hope that he might call me or give me some sign that he is fine somewhere, and that he’s coming home. I want him to come home. He has to come home. Any other option is inconceivable.

 

At some point I must have cried myself to sleep, because when I open my eyes to the sound of the front door opening, dawn is just breaking. Before I gain full consciousness, I’m already throwing myself in his arms, kissing his cheeks, his lips, his jaw, every part of his warm, familiar skin that I craved and missed so much tonight. The minute the cobwebs of sleep clear from my eyes and my mind, I realise however that my husbands arms are not returning my embrace, that his lips are trembling, and when I look at his face, I see that his eyes are bloodshot and that they are swollen with shed tears. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and I inhale his scent, the familiar scent that he carried from his life at the coffee shop and which I love and need as much as oxygen.

 

Cinnamon.

 

Dill.

 

And … something else.

 

Roses? He smells of cheap perfume. Roses maybe, and I feel a wave of nausea hit me.

 

“You smell … you smell different,” I whisper, swallowing the lump in my throat that is making me gag.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, his blue eyes watering with unshed tears.

 

“You smell, of someone else,” I continue softly. He looks away but I grab his face and make him face me before taking a step back.

 

“Were you with someone else Peeta?” I ask dully.

 

Of course he wasn’t. Why am I even asking such a stupid question?

 

“I’m sorry Katniss, I’m so sorry.” He is openly sobbing now.

 

“Peeta, were you with someone ELSE?!” I press on a bit louder.

 

_Now he will deny it. And he will be so angry and indignant, and we’ll end up fighting again. Why do I even ask such stupid questions?_

 

“Yes.”

 

_What?_

 

“What?”

 

Peeta breaks down in front of me and lowers himself on the couch, and I’m oddly mesmerised by his tears as they hit the carpet below his bowed face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he keeps repeating.

 

I can’t breathe. And I don’t think I’ll ever breathe again. So this is what it feels when your heart hurts so much that it stops beating. “But...but I fixed the frame,” I whisper, as a wave of hurt, disbelief, _and betrayal_ washes my world as I know it away.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the amazing, encouraging and kind response to this story so far. I am overwhelmed and touched and I really hope that I might be able to keep you involved even in this chapter!
> 
> Once again I want to thank jeeno2, sponsormusings, feeding_geese and also salanderjade for pre-reading this chapter, and helping me out to make it work. Their no-frill approach works wonders, and they as well as their work deserve all the love that you are able to give them. So please get to know them :).
> 
> I will definitely not be able to update before the 4th July (I haven't written a word of Chapter 3 yet! :) ) so I wish all of you who celebrate it a happy holiday!

“He cheated?! Fuck me, are you serious? If it’s true, just dump him. Once a cheater always a cheater if you ask me.”

I flinch at Johanna’s words even though, technically speaking, I’ve pretty much decided to follow her advice even before she, Madge, and Annie turned up unannounced this morning.

It’s been three days since I got out of bed, except to go to the bathroom to retch and to have a sporadic glass of water. Three days since I bothered to speak to anyone except to call the office and request a few days of sick leave. Three days since I’ve showered or changed clothes. Three days since I’ve functioned as a coherent person. Three days since Peeta had admitted to spending the night with someone else. The turn of events following that confession is not entirely clear in my confused and exhausted mind, but my hoarse voice and sore throat seem to be pretty indicative of how much I had yelled and screamed at him.

_“How could you? How could you? Who is she? Did you fuck her? Of course you did, you asshole!!”_

_“No! I didn’t fuck anyone, I swear Katniss. Listen to me, please Katniss, I swear!”_

_“Do you expect me to believe you? You were out all night, and you admitted to being with another woman! Was she good? Did you like it?”_

_“I didn’t have sex with her! I stopped before things went there. I promise, Katniss. I swear!”_

_“Bullshit! Do I know her? Wait, I don’t even want to know. Fuck her. Fuck you! Just get the hell out of here!”_

_“No, listen to me. Please hear me out, please! I went to a bar after our fight. I was hurt, angry and I drank, a lot. I met some girl there who lives right opposite. We made out and then I stopped, I swear! That’s all!”_

I remember these words had given me a sudden moment of lucidity between sobs and yelling, and I had looked at him coldly, trying to cling to some shred of dignity that deep, deep down I knew I still held somewhere. Never had I felt pain as much as this; a stabbing loss laced with such sharp betrayal. But never had I felt such fury before either, and the hard tone with which I addressed him seemed to shock him more than the shouting.

_“Why did you go to her place?”_

_“What?”_

_“You said that you stopped, and that you only made out. Stopped from doing what?”_

_“Katniss...”_

_“Answer me, damn it.”_

_“Why are you asking me this? What good could possibly come out -”_

_“Shut the fuck up. I decide what questions to ask. You stopped from doing what?”_

_Looking down, he answered me, and at least had the decency to show shame. “From … sleeping with her. She … we were... and then I pictured your face, and how I would destroy everything, and how much I love you. And I stopped.”_

_“But you went to her place.”_

_“Yes, but -”_

_“You went to her place with the intention of having sex with her.”_

_“I was drunk Katniss, and we were so angry at each other -”_

_“Answer me. Yes or no?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“That’s enough for me. You have an hour to pack your bags. I’m going out and I don’t want to see you here when I’m back.”_

_“Where are you going?”_

_“Don’t you even dare ask that. Just leave. Fuck you.”_

I drove for a couple of hours, fighting to keep my tears from flowing until I was back at the house. The need to lie down in bed and weep became too much to control after a while, so I made my way back, and as I expected, Peeta was already gone. My heart sank as I saw that he had cleared his drawers, but the thing that just released the floodgates was the fact that in going through the clean laundry to pack his bags, he had taken the time to also fold my clothes in a neat pile next to the washer dryer. He always took care of the laundry and is predictable to a fault. Except for being faithful I guess. 

I fought with the desire to throw my clean clothes to the floor and kick them around with my dirty shoes, but I decided that I would much rather cry then deal with a fresh load of clothes. The rest of the day passed in a blur of tears, headaches, disturbed sleep, nightmares, and the constant vibrations from my mobile phone. Since I kicked him out, Peeta kept calling, texting, pleading with me to speak to him. In fact, three days on, I still find a new text every time I force myself to open my eyes, but I never reply. There is nothing to say from my end. 

_Katniss, please answer. Let’s talk. I’m at Barley’s … please call me. Please I love you._

_I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m sorry. Please let me try and make it right. I love you._

_\--- 2 missed calls ---_

_Katniss I love you. Let’s not throw away 12 years._

_\--- 1 missed call ---_

_What can I do to make it right? I love you._

_I’m not the only one who made a mistake here Katniss!_

_\--- 5 missed calls ---_

_I’m sorry I’m sorry please forget my last text. Please answer me baby. I love you so much._

After three days of almost constant unconsciousness, I find myself being woken roughly by my girlfriends. It seems to be early afternoon but I’m not even sure. I know, rather than see, that I’m gently but firmly dragged out of bed and into the shower where they wash me and my hair before leading me to the kitchen. I try to ignore the fact that it already looks clean and impersonal and cold just after not being used by my husband for a few days. The girls make me drink what feels like gallons of water before force-feeding me a parma ham and brie sandwich that has been surely prepared by Peeta and for which they didn’t even bother to hide the “Mellark’s” wrapping. The thought of eating his food makes my stomach churn, but Johanna’s response to my attempted protests is to clamp my mouth shut with both of her hands until I swallow whatever I have in my mouth. Like a fucking dog being forced to take its fucking medication. 

Only when I’m semi conscious and take a look at the mirror do I realise just how terrible I look after just a few days of neglect. Before I can ask them what they’re doing in my house, my mobile, plugged to its charger by Madge, comes back to life and signals 15 new text messages and 5 voice mail messages. The latest one, sent by Peeta as most of the others, explains the whole situation.

 _I know you well enough to know that you are not taking care of yourself, and that you have not reached out to anyone. I gave my keys to Madge. She and the girls will be coming to take care of you. I’m so sorry, I love you. Please find it in your heart to speak to me._

I’m furious at him for being presumptuous, but my heart lurches at just how accurately he can anticipate my behaviour. Fucking bastard. I don’t bother scrolling down to his other texts and I still don’t want to speak to him, but surprisingly, I find that I do want to open my heart to my friends. I desperately, painfully need to share just how my life is collapsing around me. So I tell them everything, the months following the loss of our baby, our argument, Peeta’s betrayal. I realise that he had kept all details hidden from them, other than the fact that we had an argument and that he was staying away for a little. Johanna is furious, but Madge and Annie are suspiciously silent about the whole situation.

“The happy clappy praying ones are always the greatest hypocrites!” Johanna continues, as she digs in the tub of ice-cream that the girls also brought with them and which we are sharing as we sit cross-legged on the living room carpet. The ice-cream bears the name of the Mellark coffeeshop as well, and it’s in my favourite flavour, again certainly sent by Peeta. 

I eat up as I continue to cry. 

“I never thought he’d actually cheat, never,” I gulp. Annie is braiding my wet hair, and I feel her stiffen slightly.

I shift in surprise and look back at her. “What is it Annie?” I ask immediately between sniffles. 

Annie hesitates for a minute and exchanges a look with Madge. Johanna glowers at both of them. “Katniss, I’m not trying to justify what Peeta did, please don’t think that I am...” she begins.

“With that disclaimer, I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re going to do,” I snap at her angrily. I move away and finish braiding my hair, before moving to rest my back to the couch, and hugging my knees defensively. 

She sighs “It’s just that, you both have been going through a horrible period, and Peeta has spoken a little to Finnick in the past weeks,” she continues tentatively. 

“And what did he tell him?” I growl, suddenly feeling slightly uncomfortable.

“He told him about how difficult it’s been for you both, and how he felt that he had lost both his son and his wife in that labour ward. He told him that he’s terrified that you’re planning to leave, and that he doesn’t know what to do about it,” she replies. 

Johanna snorts. “Not sure what he expected to achieve by shagging a random girl,” she says snidely.

“Shut up Jo. He didn’t shag anyone, and you’re not helping!” Madge snaps back. 

I glare at all of them, and even though Jo is basically saying what I’m thinking, I’m still not liking it. “Jo at least says it how it is,” I mumble bitterly. “But stop saying it Jo, you’re really not doing me any good” I add as I look down at a corner of the carpet that suddenly becomes a deep object of study for me.

Madge nudges Johanna away and squeezes next to me. “Love, Annie and I are not trying to defend Peeta. We know that you are so hurt, and we hate him for it, and we don’t want to see you like this,” she begins. “What we’re trying to say is that … a marriage is made up of two people … and that there are more vows to marriage than fidelity, and that before taking drastic decisions, you and he need to sit down and see where you have failed each other in such a way as to lead to this situation.”

Johanna opens her mouth but both Annie and Madge simultaneously raise warning fingers, and she refrains from talking. Even though I’m deeply hurt by their implication, I mull Madge’s words in my mind. But the minute I start remembering the silences, the loneliness following Gabriel’s death, I feel as if my lungs contract and my stomach is all but ready to deliver back the sandwich in its entirety. So I decide that it’s so much easier to focus on the events of three days ago.

“I didn’t cheat on him,” I reply stubbornly.

“Peeta didn’t fully cheat on you either,” says Annie quietly.

“What the hell does ‘fully cheat’ mean?” Johanna scoffs angrily, “you either cheat or you don’t! And making out with someone else sounds like cheating to me, even though he didn’t have sex with her!”

“He went to her place with the intention of fucking her,” I add. Annie and Madge are happily married. I cannot for the life of me understand how they can possibly be seeing things differently from me. 

“But he stopped,” Madge replies. “He stopped before he could go down a road which would have totally destroyed your marriage. You have to keep this in mind, Katniss.”

“In my books, our marriage is totally destroyed anyway. Madge, would you forgive Gale for ‘almost cheating’ or not ‘fully cheating’ or whatever bullshit way you and Annie are trying to phrase this? Honestly, would you?” 

Madge looks away from me and the four us sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, until I can’t take the awkwardness anymore. 

“Where is Delly anyway?” I ask. Even though I had met her through Peeta, she and I have become firm friends, especially in the last few years, where together with Johanna, Annie and Madge, she had established herself in my group of closest friends. “I know that she was Peeta’s friend first but … is she taking his side? Is that why she’s not here?” I demand with increased indignation.

My friends squirm uncomfortably and exchange looks before Madge reaches out for my hand and squeezes it affectionately. “Delly is 15 weeks pregnant, Katniss. She didn’t say anything until now because of … what happened. But she’s starting to show, and she didn’t think seeing her would be of any help,” she explains sadly.

I gape at Madge and blink rapidly. The irony of having everything that forms part of my life conspiring to crush me is completely lost on me. At this rate I’m going to actually start believing that there is a God - one with a sense of humour who is rolling on his belly in the clouds and pointing at me. Delly and Thom are having a baby, just when Peeta and I lost ours and lost each other in the process. The sandwich that I have just eaten feels like a ball of concrete that is steadily churning up my stomach. “Oh no,” I finally manage to whisper.

Just as if on cue, my mobile screen suddenly lights up and Delly’s Facebook picture pops up, showing her kissing Thom’s face as he grins widely in the latest of the hundreds of selfies they both seem to love to share. 

I grab the phone and hurl it away from me, and it stops ringing abruptly as it hits the carpet a few feet away from me.

“Whoa! You cannot afford a new phone right now!” yelps Johanna as she raises it to a light to check for cracks or scratches on the screen. “A divorce is expensive shit, you moron!” 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When your uncle happens to be a divorce lawyer, the legal costs linked to the divorce may not be as expensive as one might expect. However, the downside to such an arrangement is that of having your own lawyer’s disdain included in the fees without any extra cost. Uncle Haymitch’s face speaks volumes of judgement as he stares at me from behind his old mahogany desk that has definitely seen one sloshed glass too many. 

Free legal advice also comes with spirits attached to the coherence of the lawyer. 

“You are doing _what_ , Sweetheart?”

“You heard me,” I hiss through gritted teeth. 

“I heard that you’re divorcing your husband. And I’m assuming that I heard wrongly. Prim is the sweet one, you’re supposed to be the clever one. Have we lost _that_ too, love?.”

Free. Legal. Advice. Sucks. 

“Aren’t you lawyers meant to do whatever the client tells you to do? Stop questioning, and draft the papers,” I reply with a glare. 

“Why are you leaving the man you’ve been with for almost half of your life?”

I hesitate for a moment, feeling the bile rising up my throat. “He cheated on me,” I finally explain hoarsely.

That seems to have got his attention. Uncle Haymitch leans forward with his eyes narrowed, even though they also betray an element of disbelief. “I’m quite sure that he did not, but fine, tell me everything,” he urges me. 

And I do. Even though I start off with my story from the fact that Peeta actually admitted that he spent the night with someone else, my uncle’s leading questions actually got me to open up about the argument that preceded him leaving, and the months that we spent living as near total strangers under the same roof following the loss of our baby. After half an hour of pouring my heart out to my alcoholic, semi-competent lawyer/uncle, I am a completely mess.

God it hurts. It hurts to remember, it hurts to speak about it, it hurts to feel, so I try my best to pull myself together and face my uncle with all the dignity that a puffy, blotchy face and tear induced hiccups can possibly leave you with. 

“So I want a divorce,” I conclude as I try hard not to meet his eyes. I know that he is staring at me intensely, with an expression that might actually be stretched to imply pity. I hate it. “Stop staring at me and start drafting the papers,” I add sullenly, seeing that he makes no attempt to speak.

Uncle Haymitch finally leans back in his worn chair and crosses his arms thoughtfully. “I was going to ask whether there is any chance that he might have got this other woman pregnant, but unless his faith has given him the powers of the Holy Spirit, the odds of a baby being conceived through a few drunken kisses seems pretty remote,” he remarks, staring at me pointedly.

 _What the fuck is this supposed to mean?_ I stare at him in astonishment and wonder if I had actually heard him right. Is he speaking to _me_ about the possibility of my husband having a child with someone else?

I take a deep breath to prepare myself to engage in a long string of choice words to throw at this sad excuse of a relative and lawyer that I happen to have sitting in front of me but he stops me mid way by tossing me a bag of chips that he dug out from his desk drawer. “Eat. And shut up. And listen,” he orders, “I don’t know why you’re here, and what you think you’re doing, but you don’t end a marriage just because you have a fight with your husband.”

I gape at him. “Didn’t you hear a word I said?” I finally sputter, slamming the bag of chips on his desk. He winces at the sound of the snack being powdered by my hands and stares at the bag rather wistfully. I slam it again, harder, to get his attention. 

“You had a fight. He got drunk in a bar. Made out with a girl. Stopped from having sex with her. Something something blah blah. I heard you very well, sweetheart. And you want a divorce out of spite, or anger, or hurt, or whateverthefuck. Tell me something more, or better still, go back home and make up with Blondie. Talk like adults, sort your shit out,” he challenges me snidely. 

His words remind me suddenly of a conversation I had with Madge just a few days ago when she and the girls were visiting. Just before leaving, Madge had asked Annie and Jo to wait for her downstairs. Once alone, she had turned and looked at me seriously.

_“Katniss, you asked me a very important question about whether I would ever forgive Gale for doing what Peeta did to you,” she began. I looked at her warily and narrowed my eyes but she continued. “Well, I did forgive Gale for something very similar, a few years ago in fact.”_

_I stared at her in horror and disbelief. What the hell? Was the whole world going fucking insane? Gale and Madge adore each other, their marriage is perfect, the kind of marriage that Peeta and I always jokingly aspired to. “Gale...cheat?” I finally squeaked._

_She smiled a little ruefully and nodded. “Well not exactly, but let’s say he stopped, just like Peeta.” She glared at me when I tried to interrupt and I clamped my mouth shut. “As I said, it happened a few years ago. I was working hard on the Arts Festival while Gale was up to his nose in a new housing project that his company was working on. We were working longer and longer hours, and at the end of a long day we had no real energy or interest to talk or do anything rather than pass out until the next morning. Well Gale was missing a button in his best suit, the one that he was going to wear to give his presentation, and he had been nagging me for weeks to sew it up for him, until the day of the presentation came, we had a fight about the damn button, and he left for work in a huff. His secretary offered to sew up that damn button, and offered him coffee to calm him down before the presentation._

_Coffee before the presentation became celebratory drinks after work, and then became shared lunch a couple of times a week and one dinner. This went on for a few weeks, until one day it escalated into a make out session in his office. And that’s when he broke down, ran off and came to confess everything as I was coming out of the gallery.”_

_I gasped and, in a move that is totally uncharacteristic for me, pulled her towards me for a hug. “How did you survive the pain? How did your heart stop breaking?” I asked with a sob as I buried my head in her shoulder._

_“At first I didn’t. I reacted just like you, overwhelmed by the betrayal and the anger and the hurt. Then I decided that I didn’t want to lose him. On the day when he ran off and came to tell me, he had also made his choice, and I decided that it was either working damn hard to make our marriage work again and fix it, or else to quit. And Katniss, I’m not a quitter, and neither are you.”_

_“How did you fix things? How could you ever trust him again?” I asked._

_“We argued and fought and yelled, but that means that we communicated. When we did not have the energy to cry and scream anymore, we just talked, and talked enough to make up for the months we had spent in silence. We cut down on our working hours, we made dinner together, I sewed his damn buttons. I taught him how to sew.” We both smiled at that._

_“My point is that what Peeta did is bad, but what he could have done, and chose not to do, could have been much worse. Don’t throw away everything just now. Not when it’s still fixable.” I did not reply, and avoided her piercing stare. “Unless Peeta’s straying is only an excuse for leaving, and there is also something else?”_

“There is nothing to talk about, we’re done,” I insist angrily as I force myself to the present, “and you are my lawyer and you will draw up the divorce papers because I am telling you to do so!”

He grins at me, completely unphased. “Love, the thing is that you are not paying me, so basically you don’t carry much clout around my office at the moment,” he replies. “I will draw up your papers, but you might have to wait...let’s say... two months for them? Plenty of time to have a talk with hubby while you wait, don’t you think?”

“Two months?! Are you bloody serious?”

“I’m a busy man, sweetheart.”

“No you’re not. You’re just an asshole!”

“That’s right. I’m an asshole, and you’re penniless because you and hubs just spent all your savings in buying that flat. So you can’t afford a divorce, and so you’re stuck with me. Two months is what I offer. And I strongly encourage you to change your mind in the meantime.”

I stare at him without a word for a few moments, my anger suddenly dissipating in a feeling of helplessness. He just doesn’t understand. No one understands. I don’t want to fix things, I don’t want to talk like an adult and sort my shit out. Doing that means going back to three months ago, in that cursed labour room, as my child died. It means opening up to the pain, the guilt, the blame, and having to face my husband’s despair. I don’t want to comfort him, I don’t want to comfort myself. I just want to forget.

I want out. 

“I’ll wait for your papers in two months,” I whisper hoarsely, and I drag myself out of the room without another word.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as I get out of the car, and walk towards our apartment building, I see Peeta sitting on a bench outside, obviously looking out for me.

Just one look at him fills me with the dreaded feeling that he might actually _know_. 

My suspicions are confirmed the minute Peeta catches sight of me, as he runs towards me with a frantic look in his eyes. “Divorce? Katniss! _Divorce!?_ ” he demands, almost hysterically. I know, from my occasional glances at the mirror, that I look quite bad - thin, pale, exhausted - but Peeta is looking positively horrible, sickly even. His blue eyes are surrounded by dark circles, and he seems to have aged 5 years in this past week. He has shrunk in his jeans, and his curls, always bright and endearingly tousled, hang over his eyes in greasy, darkened lanks. The sight of him looking like that fills me, unexpectedly, with deep sadness.

“Peeta, please, no...I can’t handle you right now,” I plead, my voice cracking. “Just go, please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“Katniss, please not divorce, please no,” he begs, his own voice hoarse and unsteady. “Let's talk, let’s try counselling, I’m ready to do anything to save our marriage!”

I try to walk around him, hurrying the few steps that divide me from the door to our block and to the silence that I so terribly crave. He follows me, and tries to reach for my arm before I flinch and snatch it away from him. “Please, Peeta. Find a lawyer, prepare yourself. The papers should be drafted by my uncle in a few months. I know that money is tight because of our mortgage, but he doesn’t even have to be a good lawyer. I won’t make it hard, I will give all my ownership of the coffeeshop, and it will be smooth and …” 

“I will fight it, you know, I will refuse to be served, I’ll prolong it, I’ll do whatever it takes,” he interrupts, his tears belying the fact that, rather than being bitter, he is desperately clutching at straws.

I think I’m shedding a few tears myself as I shake my head at him. “Is this the way you want to keep me married to you? Do you think that this will make me stay?” I reply softly.

“Are you really divorcing me for one drunken mistake? One kiss?” he asks miserably. “I spent the last twelve years showing how much I love you every minute of every day, and the one time I fuck up - and I know I fucked up badly - the _only_ time, you leave me?”

I stare at him sadly and he seems to finally understand. But I don’t want to say it, please Peeta don’t make me say it. 

“It’s not just because of the kiss right?” he whispers, “there is more right?” When I remain silent, his voice becomes laced with anger. “I deserve to know, damn it,” he cries finally.

“I can’t separate you from Gabriel anymore,” I reply with a whisper. “Everytime I think of you I think of Gabriel, and how you made me have him and I blame you for losing him, I blame you for my unhappiness, and I hate you for it. And the more I hate you, the more I hate myself. And Peeta, I don’t want to hate you or myself anymore. I’m exhausted and unhappy and I want to forget, I want to start over. Without you.”

It takes him a second to control his expression, but in that one second, in his grimace, I see the full import that my words have had on him. His face betrays the incredulity, the anger, the unhappiness and finally, and this is what seems to cover my heart with a cold shroud that makes it sink, resignation.

My husband has finally given up on me.

“We...we...I don’t think that there is anything else to say then,” he replies, his tone devoid of life and emotion. “Take care Katniss. Thank you for all these years … for loving me, for Gabriel...our son. It was everything.”

As I see him walk away, as I rush up the stairs, as I close the door behind me, as I crumple on the ground sobbing and crying out for Peeta and Gabriel, I wait for the relief to come. I wait for my lungs to allow me to breathe again, for me to forget about my husband and my baby and to start a new life.

But all that comes to me, as the silence of the flat accentuates the sound of my sobbing, as my calls for Peeta and Gabriel remain unanswered, is the sudden and entombing knowledge that I am now totally and devastatingly alone in the world. And I wonder, with increasing ferocity, whether pushing away the only man I loved in my life was actually such a good idea after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a big thank you for being so encouraging, kind and supportive of this story, even though I know that it deal with a decisive topic, and that it is natural to take sides. The response to this story has really been amazing, and I wish I could explain how appreciative I am :).
> 
> As always, big hugs to sponsormusings, jeeno2, salander-jade and bigbigbigday006/feeding-geese for making everything in this story flow better, make more sense and hopefully be more enjoyable for everyone.  
> Do drop by and say hi, I’m on tumblr on malteaselivesonanisland and would very happy to say hi back :) xx

In the days following my confrontation with Peeta, I really expected to start feeling better. After all, my decision to divorce my husband was based on my desire for an opportunity to start afresh, to forget about the last few months of my life, and to put a lid on my grief that is so airtight that it would finally block away the pain. It was a decision based on my pure need to stop associating him with my loss, to actually stop thinking of my loss, and to provide us both with a possibility for happiness.  
But now, three weeks down the line, all I feel is even more miserable, lost, and alone than I ever felt before in my life. 

Even though spring shines outside, every day for me feels gray, dull, heavy. Life around me is silent, irrespective of whether I’m alone staring at nothing at home, or in my cubicle at the office, churning article after article of cutting opinions on anything remotely related to marriage and monogamy. I make sure to enter and leave the press room at insane hours, and constantly avoid contact with everyone except through the safety net of email. On the rare occasions that I do have to interact with my colleagues, no one notices that I don’t wear my wedding ring any longer, or if they do, they know me well enough to suppose that I will not be giving out any information about it. 

I haven’t told Prim or my mother about my decision to end my marriage, either. Prim is currently living in Europe where Rory is stationed with the American Diplomatic Corps in Madrid and, in view of the time difference, our conversations are mostly relegated to email and instant messaging, which are not exactly conducive to explaining the current mess that is my life. With regard to my mother, well...we’re not close, mostly because we’re actually pretty much identical in character and temperament, a fact that makes us completely incapable of sustaining any sort of adult conversation. I learned how to grieve from my mother, building a comfortable cocoon of indifference and coldness, and shutting everyone out as I had seen her do following my father’s death when I was only eleven. While Prim cried and screamed and missed her Papa, Mom and I went on with our business, silent and purposeful, choosing different recipients of blame until the memory of Dad was submerged and buried under mundane practicality. 

I know that Mom would offer no comfort or opinion on the state of my marriage, just as she had offered none when Gabriel died. In fact, her only reaction had been to provide me with addresses of charities to which I could donate my dead baby’s tiny clothes and crib, and I remember Peeta tearing the papers to shreds before locking himself up in the nursery for hours on end. I wonder whether Peeta misses the comfort that the nursery seemed to give him and I can’t help the twinge of guilt that accompanies that thought. Lately I’ve been getting twinges of guilt over many things, and they’re becoming harder and harder to ignore. 

For many reasons, including those that I am not yet in a position to admit to myself, I try to spend as little time at home as possible. After work I run, and after that I drive around in my car until I find some remote place where I can eat alone without the risk of bumping into anyone I know. I try to keep active and busy at all times, to tire myself out, to distract myself as much as possible.

But I still find myself checking my mobile far too often than I would like to admit. 

Peeta doesn’t contact me in any way, and I’m not surprised. I was the one to tell him that I wanted to forget, that I wanted to start again without him, that I blamed him for my unhappiness, that I hated him. But as the days pass and my inbox or mobile brings no sign of him, what I mostly feel is not anger and hate anymore, but only loss - stifling, all encompassing loss. I miss his random texts from a million years ago when we were happy, when he would share snippets from table conversations at the coffee-shop ( _“Kat! Some woman’s husband broke his dick. Is that possible? Google it and get back please. Naan and I are debating! xo”_ or _“Ned Stark dies Kat, ooops am I spoiling it for you?”_ ). I can’t help smiling when I remember the frownies he would send me back in reply whenever I started a text with “JFC!” and the little love notes he used to leave me as a surprise in the most improbable places around our flat. It doesn’t help that he and I had been together for so long that practically everything in my life somehow reminds me of him. 

I miss his presence at home, his scent, his warmth, all the things I never really took much notice of but that are now so horribly missing that it physically hurts. I miss the heavy stomping of his legs on the parquet, the containers of food that he always left me in the fridge to take to the office for lunch. I miss his obsessive need to turn the news on BBC World as he cooked dinner ( _Because Katniss, seriously, we know nothing of what is going on in the world. It’s embarrassing!_ ), and to stream the Champions League soccer matches on some bogus website that was always so slow to load that he would end up missing the main action anyway. 

I especially miss him in bed now that my every night is plagued with dreams. Sometimes I dream of images and sounds of the pain in the labour ward, or of Peeta’s face as I broke his heart and sent him away from me. These are the nightmares that lead to me waking up in tears, but they are actually far better than the dreams of me holding Gabriel; warm, alive, healthy Gabriel while I lie in the strong embrace of my husband. After these dreams I usually wake up with a feeling of pure, unadulterated happiness which lasts a second until reality stabs me with its cold blade. Those are the mornings where I weep the most, where my sobs are the loudest, and where I fight with myself and wonder what exactly I have chosen to do with my life when I sent my husband away.

I miss him. So much. 

I don’t tell this to Haymitch when he calls me once a week to check whether I still want him to work on the divorce papers. I don’t tell this to Madge, Annie or Johanna, who strangely enough never really push me for updates. I definitely don’t tell Delly, who I still avoid even though, persevering as always, she never seems to give up from trying to get in touch with me. 

There are times when I almost tell Peeta though. To my shame and embarrassment, I have taken up to browsing his Facebook profile on a somewhat regular basis, trying to discover how he’s doing without me. However, my husband has never been an avid Facebook user, and his profile shows nothing new since our separation. The only change he made is to his marital status, which he removed discretely in such a way as to not announce to the world that we are not married any longer. His only visible interaction on most days is through the page dedicated to the coffee shop, where he updates the daily specials and graciously replies to satisfied patrons who leave messages on the wall, and on the page dedicated to the amateur soccer team that he has set up since college with his brothers Naan and Barley, and with Finnick, Thom, and Gale. I remember going to see him play every week many years ago, cheering him with the girls and rewarding each of his goals with a kiss from the bleachers. I know that until Gabriel’s death, he was still playing very regularly, and I wonder now why I had stopped going to his matches. I honestly can’t remember.

As I browse this page now, I notice that “The Tributes” seem to have won some sort of semi-pro tournament. I click through the album that Delly has uploaded of the team celebrating after the game, carrying Finnick on their shoulders as he proudly holds up a trophy. I smile slightly and scroll through the pictures, lingering on the ones where Peeta’s face is showing clearly. He is pleased of course, and smiling with all the others, but I know him well enough to see the shadow in his eyes, and the slightly wistful look he sports at the bar where he sits with the rest of the team and their wives and girlfriends. Madge, Annie, Delly and even, for some strange reason, Johanna are present in these pictures. My absence is clearly conspicuous.

It hurts that I was not told about this game, and even though I can understand why, it doesn’t make me feel less alone. I toy with the idea of posting a message on the wall, but even though I have a neutral _“Congratulations!”_ written, I suddenly refrain from clicking the post button, choosing instead to hover the mouse over the “leave group” option. At the last minute, I refrain from clicking that button too. Instead I decide to slam shut my laptop and take a break from fucking Facebook. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time I see him since our confrontation is at the party organised by Madge and Gale to celebrate their fifth anniversary, in the sprawling gardens of her parents’ mansion. I agonize for days on whether to show up or not until I finally decide that I cannot handle another evening in my own miserable company. So after a frantic shopping spree, a visit to the hairdresser, long, painful moments of self-doubt in front of the mirror and far too much time hiding in the comfort of my car, I pretend to walk confidently into the party, alternating between deep breaths and constant swallowing to try and calm down the ever increasing churning of my stomach. I don’t see Peeta, and I nearly cry out from relief, grabbing a glass of white wine from a passing waiter and downing it in one comforting gulp.

Madge is a picture of perfection as she rushes to greet me with a long hug and whispered assurances that _I’m so beautiful and brave to turn up and please think of what I told you and please return my calls!_ Gale looks at me seriously, telling me how sorry he is that things turned out the way they have. He probably thanks his lucky stars that he got over his teenage crush on me and ended up marrying Madge. Not that I blame him. His wife can seemingly deal with marriage crises far better than me. From the corner of my eye, I see Delly and Thom hurriedly walking towards us, and Delly, obviously pregnant and glowing Delly, is almost bouncing with excitement as she calls out my name and waves enthusiastically. I can’t handle this shit, I think with bitterness and jealousy, and move away, pretending not to see her.  
Her faltering steps and the look in her eyes show me that she is, however, definitely not pretending not to notice my slight. I grab another glass of wine, and sip on it miserably as I walk around, looking out desperately for Johanna. After I hand over my empty glass to the barman, I finally catch sight of her, on the other side of the bar. Talking to my husband.

It’s been over a month now, and I’m overcome by a sudden inability to move, to breathe, to think clearly. My breaths become shallow, my eyes water automatically, and I notice with a pang that he looks well, still a bit too thin perhaps, but far better than from our last meeting. I also realise that he is wearing a shirt that I don’t recognise, a fact which makes my stomach lurch even more. Peeta hates shopping, and was always very happy to leave the care of his wardrobe to me. Is he shopping by himself now? Is someone else doing it for him?

Has my husband always been so devastatingly handsome?

The two glasses of wine that I just drank are seriously threatening to make an embarrassing reappearance, but before I can make a run for the bathroom to empty my stomach, Peeta catches my eyes with a start. We share a long, sad glance before he walks tentatively towards me, looking at me cautiously. 

"Nice shirt," I squeak.

He looks puzzled for a moment but then his brow clears and he gives me a small smile. “Thanks. Online shopping,” he explains. I let out a breath of relief that I didn’t know I was holding.

_Damn him. He does he do it?_

“It’s convenient,” I reply rather uselessly. A waiter passes by with drinks, and within a second I’m downing my third glass of wine, while Peeta takes a gulp from his beer as a long moment of awkward silence sets in.

“Bud?” I blurt out in surprise.

He makes a face and I smile before I can help myself. “I offered to stock the Undersees with Stella but Gale insisted on this shit. Don’t get me started on the subject,” he replies with resigned look. 

Belgian roots, through and through, I think fondly before I give myself a mental shake and look away. 

“So how are you?” he finally asks.

“Good, you?”

“Good, you?” I raise my eyebrows and he flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry, just asked you that,” he mutters with a wince. 

“It’s ok. Fine, really,” I reply quickly. Another painful second passes. “Congrats on the trophy win, you must be thrilled,” I add finally.

He gives me a pointed look that clearly indicates that there is not much for him to be thrilled about lately, but his reply is friendly. “Thank you. It was a … good night. You were missed.” 

I don’t know how to reply to this. “Yeah, but well...you know,” I finally mumble.

“Yeah. I know,” he agrees softly, his voice faltering a little.

This is hell. 

“Nice party huh?” I comment nervously.

“Katniss.”

“What?”

“How did it come to this?”

I don’t even from where to start answering this question. How did it come to us behaving like uncomfortable strangers after having been together for so many years? When did it start falling apart? Since his drunken kiss with some girl after a fight with me? Since Gabriel’s death? Maybe when I agreed to try for a child when I wasn’t sure I wanted to… or perhaps when I stopped going to my husband’s soccer games without actually remembering why? Somehow, somewhere along the way, we lost each other. And that’s where I think we lost ourselves. 

I excuse myself quickly and run to the bathroom where I lock myself up and spend the next half an hour hugging the toilet, crying and ignoring the knocks on the door. Finally Johanna knocks sharply and threatens to break down the door and to send me to face the Undersee’s wrath by myself. Faced with such an option, I wash my face and make myself somewhat presentable before I sneak out. I ignore the glares of the long line of ladies waiting outside the door but Johanna flips them the bird and drags me outside to a secluded corner in the garden.

Automatically, my eyes start scanning the garden for him.

“He left,” Johanna informs me as she guesses who I’m looking for. “After your conversation from hell, he apologised to Madge and Gale and just fucked off.”

My eyes threaten to water again. “I see,” I gulp. 

Johanna huffs impatiently and stares ahead at something or someone to avoid looking at me. “Just take him back Katniss,” she blurts out suddenly.

I gape at her. “What?”

“He’s distraught. You’re miserable. Everything is a mess. Talk to him, take him back and stop this divorce nonsense,” she continues, turning to stare at me seriously.

“Are you kidding me?! What about what you told me last time? You were supporting me back then!” my voice rising in anger. “You were the one to say that there is no such thing as ‘almost cheating’!”

“Yes, he fucked up. And so did you,” she snaps back. At this point I’m actually shaking with anger, even though she’s not saying anything that I haven’t agonised about myself in the past weeks. “You shut him out when he needed you. You lost your child. So did he. But you were so caught up in your grief that you forgot that marriage means that you deal with things together. He definitely broke the fidelity vow, but you didn’t do so great in the ‘for better and for worse’ one either. Perhaps this one is not as well known, but it sounds pretty important to me.”

I glare at her furiously. “Since when are you such an expert in marriage vows?” I ask hotly.

“Well, I had to witness you getting married in a Catholic ceremony, brainless. A marathon of vow spouting and Our Fathers. Believe me, by the end of it, everyone became a fucking expert,” she snipes back. 

I stare back at her, really hurt. Even though the Catholic rite was not my idea, I think back of my wedding day as a beautiful, happy dream. I can still remember just how Peeta had seemed to glow as he stood at the altar waiting for me to walk down the aisle of the Cathedral. “Don’t ever tell Peeta that, don’t ruin it for him,” I warn her. “And anyway, ours was the abridged version, since I’m not baptised. The real thing is longer, you idiot,” I added with indignation.

Johanna’s face suddenly breaks into a grin. “I’m kidding Katniss, lighten up for fuck’s sake! I was eyeing Thresh throughout the ceremony, so as far as I was concerned, the longer it lasted, the better,” she replies with a grin. “Anyway, you vowed a lot of things that day, and I think God turned up too, since his name was invoked so often and all. He might actually be annoyed with you at the moment.”

“I’m annoyed at God too, he took away my baby,” I growl.

“I think that point is moot, since you don’t believe in God. Right?” she asks slyly.

“Fuck you.”

“Eh I wish. Tell that to Thresh.”

We both laugh at that, but I quickly sober up when I remember the mess of emotions that I happen to be going through right now. “Oh Jo, what am I going to do?” I groan as I bury my face in my hands. 

To my surprise, Jo puts an arm around me and ruffles my hair gently. “I know I’m making a u-turn from our last talk on this topic,” she murmurs. “Madge gave me a good talking to, and I realised that I was being selfish when I told you to just give up on your marriage. I am the only single one from us girls, and I wanted to have a new partner in crime. I’m sorry, Katniss.”

I smile at her tearfully. “You were telling me what I was telling myself, Jo,” I reply, “my decision was not based on your words. I just wanted to be happy again somehow, and I thought starting afresh would be the answer.”

“And are you happy?”

“No. I’m miserable. And it just doesn’t get better,” I confess with a sob.

“Madge told me about what happened with her and Gale,” Jo replies as she nods towards our friends, who are dancing to a slow tune, sharing soft kisses and smiling wistfully at each other. “I cannot make you do anything Kat, but as I look at those two, I can’t help but think that maybe Madge did have a point in fighting so hard for her marriage.” 

I nod and stare at them sadly. “I miss him,” I whisper finally.

“He misses you as well, and he’s sorry,” she replies.

I stare at the place where I was trying to talk to him less than an hour before. I remember the awkwardness, the strained conversation, and the pain as we treated each other as strangers and not as the companions that we’ve been since we were seventeen. 

“I’m sorry too,” I murmur softly. And I really mean it. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three days later I’m sitting at my kitchen table. But instead of staring at my mobile phone, trying to decide whether or not to call my husband as I have been thinking of doing since the party, I’m looking mournfully at the brown manila envelope that Uncle Haymitch delivered to me personally last night with a glare. I haven’t opened the envelope yet, but I already know that the words “irreconcilable differences” will be jumping off the page to signal the end of, not only my marriage, but also of every moment I lived with Peeta since high school. 

_Irreconcilable differences._

After the past three days, which I spent thinking of nothing but him, I’m starting to wonder how irreconcilable these differences actually are. To add insult to injury, it’s my birthday today, the first one since my seventeenth which I’m spending without him and without my Birthday Cupcake.

Birthday Cupcake has been a tradition ever since Peeta gathered all his courage to bake me one as a birthday surprise a few weeks after I started working at Mellark’s Coffeeshop. He’d been hovering shyly around me since day one, and somehow had gotten wind that my birthday was in May. He’d baked me a heart-shaped cupcake on the day, a thought that was so sweet, so cheesy, _and so him_ , that instead of rolling my eyes and laughing, I shared the cupcake with him in the kitchen after closing time together with our first kiss, and started a tradition of sharing a heart shaped cupcake year after year on my birthday. On my eighteenth birthday, just a year later, it was modified to also include loads of sex. We had followed that tradition assiduously ever since. 

Until this year.

I hug my knees as I miserably pretend to reply cheerfully to all the birthday greetings on my Facebook wall. Half an hour later, I’m still at it, scanning hopefully for a message from Peeta, and trying not to be too disappointed when there is none. Suddenly, my mobile lights up with an alert and, in my excitement at seeing Peeta’s name, it takes three tries, and an inappropriate amount of cursing, for me to input my pin correctly.

It’s a picture of our heart-shaped cupcake, placed on a plate on a kitchen counter that is unfamiliar to me. I don’t even know where he’s living, I think with a pang, but the real tears start to flow when I read his text.

_Birthday Cupcake doesn’t want to let go. Neither do I. I love you Katniss, happy birthday._

I think of all the happy birthdays I spent with him as I dial his number. I also think of all the happy non-birthdays I spent with him as I hold my breath while I wait for him to answer. I stop thinking altogether when I hear his voice on the other side of the line. My heart feels like it’s actually going to burst.

“Katniss?” he answers breathlessly. 

“Peeta...” is the only thing I can reply as my voice falters as I sob. 

“Katniss are you crying? Don’t cry my love, please don’t,” he pleads gently.

I shake my head and swallow back my tears as I clutch the phone tighter. “I’m fine,” I reply softly, “and I was wondering...I mean, thank you, and I was thinking whether...would you like to share that cupcake with me?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I thank you for being so supportive, encouraging and kind with me :). As always, many hugs and much appreciation to my betas, bigbigbigday006, salander-jade, sponsormusings and jeeno2 who tell me what works and what doesn’t and who are totally awesome girls!
> 
> I envisage one more chapter and an epilogue after this chapter. I really hope that you approve of the direction that it’s taking. It was a very difficult chapter to write, so please be kind :) xxx

It takes Peeta almost forty-five minutes to arrive, and in that time, I shower, wash my hair, look at my mobile, choose a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, look at my mobile again, twice, turn it off and on, and finally resign myself to the fact that he has changed his mind and is not going to turn up. 

Once I reach that stage, I also start to wonder whether I should preserve a tiny shred of dignity and call him up myself to tell him to forget it. After, all, it could be that perhaps I might have made a mistake in inviting him over, right? Maybe I’m better off alone and away from him. Actually, probably it’s all for the best - isn’t that what I was actually thinking when I confirmed my decision to divorce him? Being alone is not so bad after all, right? 

But then I just look at his text and the picture he took of the cupcake, and I wonder why he’s still not here and what I’m going to do if he has really decided not to turn up and to stay away. 

By the time the buzzer rings I’m a nervous wreck, and as he climbs the stairs I stand awkwardly at the door, wringing my t-shirt in my hands, trying to force myself to act normally. But then he’s staring at me from the hallway with a smile that is so happy and his eyes so ridiculously blue; and he’s wearing clothes which I recognise and I’m so relieved that I nearly cry out until I remember suddenly that I’m just standing there not saying anything and -

“Hi,” I croak.

“Hey,” he replies shyly. We stare at each other for a second before his smile falters a little. “Can I - can I come in please?” he asks.

I blink at the “please” before stepping aside quickly and inviting him in. Always so polite, damn him. I feel myself flush in embarrassment as I look away. “I thought you were not coming. I was wondering … then you rang and … why? You still have the keys,” I ramble on nervously. 

What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Saying. 

“Sorry it took me so long, I moved to the other side of town some weeks ago. I still manage to miscalculate distance and traffic,” he explains sheepishly. “I wanted to let you know that I was running late but -”

“You don’t text or call while driving, I know,” I finish the sentence for him with a tiny smile. 

He returns my smile a little cautiously and nods. “You still know me too well,” he replies before looking down. 

The word “still” stings a little, especially since even though I may know about his texting habits, I currently have no idea where he lives, which is admittedly, a detail of some importance. “How do you like your new neighbourhood?” I ask awkwardly. It feels strange not to know his address, what his apartment looks like; actually it just feels wrong not to share an address with him anymore. We’ve lived together since college, and all of a sudden it seems that nothing makes sense any longer in my head.

He lingers a little on my question. “Well, the rent is cheap,” he finally admits with a shrug. 

With his reply, I suddenly realise just how broke Peeta must be. The mortgage payments on our flat are still automatically deducted from our joint bank account, and that is enough strain on our income, without having to add rent to the expense. I wonder whether Haymitch made any provision on what to do with our flat in the divorce papers. But I don’t want to think about divorce papers at the moment, because my husband is standing right in front of me and there is so much going on in my mind and heart that I don’t know what I’m doing or thinking or feeling anymore.

All I know is that it’s my birthday and I want to share my Birthday Cupcake with a man I’ve loved ever since I turned seventeen. 

“Well, you’re here and … thank you for remembering about the cupcake,” I tell him softly as I walk to the kitchen with him in tow. The parquet creaks under his heavy footsteps and I grin at myself before I can help it. 

_He’s back._

I’m just pulling out a plate and two forks when I see that Peeta is standing at the kitchen table, emptying his messenger bag and looking very pleased with himself. “I brought breakfast,” he announces with a small flourish, as he starts unwrapping an assortment of pastries, yoghurts and, to my joy, a small box of cheese buns. 

“I would tell you that you shouldn’t have, but I’m so glad that you did,” I reply as I enthusiastically peek inside the different packages. This feels like old times, and for a moment, at least just for this morning, I feel all the tension, anger, unhappiness and loneliness slowly starting to ebb away. And for the first time in many months, I actually feel ravenous.

“Shall I make some coffee?” he asks eagerly as he moves to the kettle. 

“Actually, there’s no coffee. I sort of switched to herbal tea a while ago,” I reply somewhat apologetically. 

Peeta’s expression clouds at this but he recovers quickly before continuing to fill the kettle. “When did this switch occur?” he asks in a neutral tone.

I shrug, feeling slightly uncomfortable but not knowing exactly why. “I guess during...when I was pregnant, I cut down the coffee and yeah, well it stuck,” I reply.

“I see. I never noticed. How could I not notice?” he answers, his expression a mix of disbelief and sadness. I stare at him in silence, not really knowing what to say, until the electric kettle signals that the water has boiled. “Herbal tea it is then!” he replies with mock enthusiasm.

I thank him as he pours the tea and once again, the awkwardness starts to dissipate slowly as we tuck in the cupcake. The familiar taste of it nearly makes me cry again and it takes all my willpower to not just throw myself in his arms. But I know that this is too much, too fast, too soon. I’m not nearly ready yet to take any decisions that go beyond having breakfast with Peeta, not when my mind is still in upheaval, and especially not when out of the corner of my eyes I can still see the manila envelope containing the documents that have the sole purpose of dissolving our marriage. 

I decide to concentrate mainly on the task at hand and greedily grab a cheese bun while Peeta smiles at me gently. “Enjoy,” he says softly as he dips a teaspoon in his yoghurt. I notice the label and look at him, confused.

“Coffee flavour? What the hell is that?” I ask in mild disgust.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks puzzled. 

“Don’t you usually have the strawberry flavoured one?” 

“No, not really, I kind of discovered this some time ago,” Peeta replies with a little frown.

“When is some time ago?” I demand with some vehemence. I’m not sure why I’m so bothered about it, but damn it, I really am.

“A year? A year and a half? Why are you asking?”

“For the same reason you asked about the tea,” I reply curtly. “Why didn’t you ever include coffee yoghurt in the shopping list?”

He suddenly looks very uncomfortable, which somehow bothers me even more. “I did,” he answers, and his tone belies the fact that he’s a little annoyed. “You just didn’t notice and kept on buying strawberry. After a few times I gave up and bought my own.”

Well shit, it’s not like I don’t hate myself enough already. “Oh,” I finally let out after a few moments. “I’m sorry,” I add softly. 

“I didn’t notice about the tea either, so I guess we’re even,” he mumbles contritely. We both set aside our breakfast, seemingly losing both our appetite at the same time, and look at each other sadly. “When did we stop noticing things, Katniss?” Peeta asks finally.

I cringe, and try to find some sort of solace in tearing a paper napkin into microscopic bits. “I don’t know. I can’t think of an exact moment. At some point, it seems like we stopped paying attention,” I answer contritely.

Peeta winces a little at my words, but he nods, agreeing with me. “I never thought it would happen to us,” he admits. “And I’m sorry,” he adds.

“Me too.”

“Does herbal tea even taste of anything?” he asks after an uncomfortable moment, flashing me a crooked grin.

The tense atmosphere lightens immediately and I smile back in relief. “It’s delicious, and you lost your right to comment on anything the minute you admitted to liking coffee yoghurt. What the fuck Peeta?” I reply with a snort.

“It’s delicious, and you don’t know what you’re missing,” he teases as he scoops a big spoonful and licks it clean.

I roll my eyes at him and we bump shoulders jokingly as I feel my smile grow wider. It’s been so long since I’ve felt so carefree and light around him, around anyone really. I want this breakfast to last forever. But speaking of which …

“Peeta, don’t you have work to go today?” I ask suddenly.

He sobers up a little and looks down. “No, I took the day off … I don’t work on your birthday,” he replies shortly. I stare at him seriously, knowing fully well that he wasn’t being presumptuous in taking an off day - just as I had not been planning to call him when I requested leave from work for today. Spending our birthdays together is just what we’ve always done since we’ve been together, and it seems that our separation has not yet become reason enough for us to miss out on this tradition.

“I see,” I reply, and leave it at that.

Before long, Peeta refills my mug with steaming tea, and pours some for himself, eliciting a tiny smile from me when I see him sniffing at it suspiciously and with a grimace. Before long we are both hunched over our mugs, our heads bent conspiratorially towards each other as we unconsciously draw comfort for ourselves from the steaming drink, or perhaps from each other.

“How are you, Katniss?” he suddenly asks, and from his tone, I know that it is a loaded question. In fact, before I automatically reply with a “fine”, he speaks again. “I mean, how are you really? Are you eating? Are you in touch with your family and the girls? Are you dealing with … everything?”

I mull over the question seriously and take my time in answering. “I work a lot. I eat regularly; I’m never hungry though. I guess I’m ok, getting by,” I reply dully. “What about you? How have you been?” I add hastily. It’s much better to deflect the conversation back on him.

He frowns a little, but if he’s realised that I’m deflecting, he doesn’t show it openly. “I’m getting by too, I think,” he replies hesitatingly, “I’m working more shifts, playing more soccer, listening to _Let Her Go_ by Passenger constantly and crying and thinking of you all the time. Oh! and I caught up on _Game of Thrones_.”

“You caught up on _Game of Thrones_?? All three seasons?”

“Is that the only thing that you heard out of my speech?” he asks in mock indignation.

I look away with a blush. “No, I heard everything,” I mutter, as I feel myself smile, “but...you said you were never going to watch _Game of Thrones_! What made you change your mind?”

Peeta shrugs. “I know you like it - I wanted to see what the fuss was all about and well... I got hooked. One Saturday I watched 8 episodes, back to back. By the end of it every time I saw a tampon commercial I was thinking in terms of bleeding flowers!”

I laugh, loudly and heartily, and I can see his face light up in pleased surprise. “You haven’t watched that much TV since you stayed awake all night waiting for the election of the new Pope,” I tease.

“Yeah, some things are important to follow Katniss,” he replies with a snort. 

“Speaking of important things, what do you think of the Red Wedding?”

“What the _fuck_ was that?”

“I know. Your cousin Lore’s wedding was really tame in comparison,” I point out with a chuckle.

He pretends to scowl at me and takes a sip of his tea before pulling a face. “By the way, I’m also going to therapy,” he confesses softly.

I gape at him in surprise. I imagined Peeta speaking to Father Plutarch, praying perhaps, or attending some sort of church group shit thingie, but actual therapy? That’s quite a big step for him. One that I haven’t even considered taking to be honest. “Why?” I finally sputter.

“I had a fight with my wife and ended up in the apartment of another woman. What does that say about me?” he replies bitterly. I wince. It’s the first time we openly mentioned this episode since I kicked him out and I don’t particularly like it. “I want to see what else I’m capable of fucking up, and perhaps learn to try and prevent any more damage,” he explains. 

“I see,” I reply, “well, good on you, I guess.” 

He turns to look at me seriously. “I was thinking, maybe one day, we could try go for a session together?” he asks nervously.

_What?_

Therapy means opening up a lot of doors which I have kept comfortably closed for a long time. It means going down emotional roads that I’m quite sure I’m not nearly ready to explore yet. It means reliving Gabriel’s death, the pain linked to it, the responsibility, the blame. “I don’t know, Peeta,” I finally murmur hesitatingly and I take a bite of a cheese bun to keep my mouth occupied, and to provide with me an excuse to stay silent. 

When he sees that no further reply is forthcoming from my end, he frowns and stands up quickly. “I need sugar with this,” he announces with a huff, and makes his way to the kitchen counter, where I realise, to my horror, that I have left the manila envelope containing the divorce papers. His face seems to mirror mine when he suddenly sees it and stops short. “Are these … ?” he asks tonelessly with his back to me.

“Yes,” I reply after a beat, not really knowing what else to say.

His expression is pained as he turns to me, his eyes so hurt. “I thought that...since you called me this morning, I thought...” he stammers, his voice breaking. 

“I haven’t looked at them yet,” I answer uneasily, “I don’t know what I’m going to do …” The small bit of the cheese bun that I was still munching on suddenly tastes like sandpaper in my dry mouth.

His stiffens and reaches out for his mug before rinsing it slowly under the open faucet in silence. I watch him warily when he moves to grab his bag and fling it over his shoulder. “Let me know when you figure it out. I...I think I’d better go now.” he finally says sadly. I’ll text you my home address...for the papers,” he adds softly.

No. No no no. 

_NO._

“Peeta please wait!” I cry grabbing his arm. It’s the first contact I have with him in many months, and I’m floored by the feel of his skin, his strong, steady warmth, in my hand.

He turns around, his eyes bright with tears that are aching to be shed. “Katniss, just decide,” he finally pleads softly. “Just tell me where we are, what is going to happen, but don’t keep dragging on this situation. I came here hoping that it was a first step, but then I see that you have divorce papers lying around in our kitchen. You know I’m sorry. You know I love you more than anything in this world, but if that is not enough for you, then let’s just sign these divorce papers now, and call it a day.”

_But I don’t want that._ And that thought, straight and unequivocal, is the first clear thought I’ve had in months. I’m still not sure what I want, but I am absolutely certain that I don’t want to sign divorce papers and for a long moment I look at my husband. I really look at him, and I see the boy I fell in love with at seventeen, in his ill fitting t-shirts and worn jeans, rushing to serve Mass on late mornings on Sunday and running back to apologetically help me out during the busy brunch shift. I see the man I married, the earnest, serious, loving father that he would have turned out to be. And the only thing I want to say slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“I’ll do it, Peeta. I’ll come to therapy with you.” 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m not exactly sure what to expect from Peeta’s therapist. Admittedly, knowing my husband, I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t be comfortable with a stern man in a sterile office with a leather couch and a notebook. However, I wasn’t expecting Cinna Lewis to be a handsome, dark skinned man wearing linen trousers and a loose sweater, and holding his sessions in the front room of his town house. Neither was I expecting to be asked to make myself comfortable on massive cushions strewn on the carpeted floor and be offered Oreo cookies and hot chocolate. I know that I agreed to therapy and consequently agreed to make the effort, and that this is definitely a step forward from Father Plutarch, but this setting feels far too invasive and intimate for my liking. 

“Doesn’t look very ‘therapy-ic’ to me,” I whisper to Peeta as I wiggle my ass on one of the cushions. It’s extremely comfortable, but I’m not very keen on admitting that.

He shrugs and munches nonchalantly on a cookie. “Cinna likes to keep it casual. Gestalt Method or something,” he explains. He notices my sceptical look and quickly adds, “it works!” with what he probably thinks is a reassuring smile. 

I roll my eyes and cross my arms automatically before turning to Peeta’s therapist, feeling my all too familiar shell clamming up around me. Cinna seems to be amused and grins widely. “Defensive I see,” he remarks. “But Katniss, the wall you’re building around you is so thick that I can’t hear you breathe. I need you to breathe my dear, it is very important that you keep breathing throughout the whole session.”

What the actual fuck. 

“Thank you, I’ll make sure to remember,” I reply coldly, “it’s kind of hard to forget when you have functioning lungs though.”

Peeta frowns at me, a cookie still hanging out of his mouth. I scowl back at him and look at the clock wistfully. It’s in the shape of Salvador Dali’s melting clock in the _Persistence of Memory_. Fifty-seven minutes left. Fuck. 

The first half of the session is actually very difficult, stilted and awkward. Cinna tries hard to engage me, and while I do well on the harmless questions, like my job, my education, and even how I met Peeta, the minute he approaches the subject of family or my marriage, my replies become surlier, shorter. He doesn’t try to bring up Gabriel yet but I hope that if he’s as good as Peeta says he is, he’ll be able to interpret the glares I’m giving him and lay low on the subject. At least until I’m ready to speak about it myself. Which will probably happen at the end of never. 

After a series of one word answers from my end, Cinna suddenly stands up and brings a large chest to the centre of the room, which he covers with a rather flamboyant scarf. “Let’s try something different,” he announces with a flourish. “Katniss, I sense that there are some things that you and Peeta need to say to each other. I want you to choose something from this room that symbolises your husband and place it on this little altar. Then I want you to try and externalise what you are keeping bottled up inside you.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you fucking serious? You want me to speak to a box? I don’t even do well with real altars, let alone with fancy ones!” I turn to Peeta angrily, who is witnessing this exchange with a sheepish look. “Seriously Peeta?”

“Your husband has actually embraced this method in his previous sessions, and has achieved a number of breakthroughs,” Cinna explains, ignoring my glares. “Peeta, perhaps you would like to go first?”

_Of course Peeta embraced this method - Peeta embraces everything and everyone._ But I keep that thought to myself as my husband nods and pulls himself up, purposely avoiding to look at me. He strides to a bookshelf with the air of someone who has repeated the same action many times and grabs a notepad, which he opens and sets on the chest. It is a picture of a bird in flight, that, to my confusion, is wearing armour. Even though I had never seen this particular sketch, I know his style well enough to know that it is his. The lines, the strokes, the shading - they are similar to those which made up the picture of our child. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to pull myself back together.

Peeta sits close to the chest, giving me his back as he looks at the picture. There are a few moments of silence before he starts talking, his voice so low and strained that I actually have to lean forward to hear him clearly.

“I - I drew this picture of a flying bird to symbolise Katniss because - “

“Peeta, remember, you have to address Katniss,” Cinna whispers encouragingly. 

He nods and takes a deep breath. “Katniss ... I drew you as a bird because … because that’s how I always considered you. A free bird that is always ready to fly away from me, and which I cannot ever stop. And I’m too slow to ever keep up with you - too cautious and scared and boring to reach you. And I always felt that like there was nothing about me that was good enough to keep you with me, and that one day I’d wake up, and find that you had flown away in the night leaving me alone. I wondered every day why exactly you chose to stay with me, when we were so different. I was selfish when I begged you for a child, hoping that would be a reason for you not to fly away... and then when we lost him you put on your armour and you did push me away just as I always feared...I knew that you blamed me for your unhappiness. And I hate myself for placing you in that situation. I hate myself for asking for something that you were not ready to give, to have caused you pain, and for not being the man you deserve. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry Katniss.” HIs voice breaks at this point, and for a whole, long minute, the only sound in the room is that of his heavy breathing. 

I reach out and embrace him from behind, burying my face between his heaving shoulder blades until he calms down. I’m shattered, overwhelmed, confused, guilty. But for once I’m not speechless. “I want to tell you some things,” I tell him earnestly, “even if it means using Cinna’s shit method and his random junk. So don’t move ok? I’m going to take my turn.”

I feel Peeta’s back relax a little as he releases a small chuckle. “Not going anywhere,” he mutters as I look around to find something that might help me speak to my husband. His confession has truly thrown me. I never realised that he felt that way, never even imagined that he thought that I blamed him for Gabriel’s death. And now that I heard it being spoken out loud, the ridiculousness of such notion reverberates in my heart with intensity. I don’t blame him for Gabriel’s death. I thought I did. Actually I was sure I did. But I was wrong.

My eyes close on a picture hanging on Cinna’s wall, and even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t intend it to be part of his arsenal for his therapy method, I remove it from the wall and place it on the chest next to the sketch. I lower myself down on the cushions again, and this time I’m the one to give my back to Peeta, even though I reach behind me to link my fingers with his. “I chose a picture of a dandelion because it reminds me of you,” I say slowly. “You’ve always been my Spring, and my hope, and I don’t know why you think that I’m the bird who will tire of you and fly away, because honestly, you leaving _me_ has always been my greatest fear. In fact, I know that it’s only a matter of time before you tire of me, especially after I failed to give you the child you wanted so much.” I falter at this point and my eyes start spilling tears. “It’s my fault that Gabriel died. Mine, not yours, and I hate myself so much for it that I decided to push you away before you could start hating me yourself and leave me. And.. and that night, after our fight, I realised that I had managed and that you were really gone and it hurt so much that I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again in my life. But I didn’t decide to leave you because I don’t love you. I never stopped loving you.” At this point I’m blinded by my own tears but all I know is that I’m suddenly in my husband’s arms, locked in a tight embrace while he whispers that he loves me back, and that he doesn’t blame me, and that is it really his fault and that he is sorry. 

The feeling of his arms around me feels so overwhelming that I cry out in relief as I cling to him. After a few minutes, I hear Cinna clearing his throat behind us. We shift to face him, still in each other’s arms. Our faces are flushed in embarrassment, and also perhaps as a result of too many emotions that I cannot describe.

“It’s a first step, and you both did very well,” he says with a smile. “But I want you to both realise that your placing each other on a pedestal is causing you both a lot of insecurity, as well as misplaced anxiety and blame. There is a lot of work to be done, separately and together, before you can start to see yourselves as worthy of the other, as equal partners. And this game of blame that you are playing with each other needs to stop - neither of you, and no one else, is to blame for your baby’s death. And until you both accept that, you will never be free to learn to forgive yourselves and move towards each other. It’s a long road, but if you allow it, I would like to take this journey with you.”

Peeta doesn’t say anything, but he nods as he pulls me closer to him. Cinna looks at me earnestly, fully aware that I am definitely the more resistant from the two of us; but there is no doubt in my mind when I meet his gaze seriously, my face is covered in tears, and nod. “I’ll allow it,” I finally sob. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The session ends soon after, but by that time, I’m in no shape to drive. Peeta offers to take me back home himself, and to hitch a lift with his brother to pick up my car later this evening. I’m so exhausted that I do not even try to decline. I curl up in the passenger seat, and try to make myself tinier as Peeta adjusts the seatbelt around me, feeling so drained that I don’t even care that he’s treating me as if I were a child. He squeezes my hand before turning on the car but we both remain silent for the first few minutes of the ride. The more I think of his words during our session, the more I yearn for his touch, but since he drives manual shift, I cannot reach out for his hand. It upsets me even more.

“Do you still have the picture of Gabriel?” I suddenly ask. In the silence of the car, my request, even though made in a low voice, sounds loud and amplified. Peeta’s hand stiffen on the wheel, but he still shifts to reach for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, and he hands it to me.

“Yes, I keep it there now,” he replies softly. 

I nod and and pull out the picture. The paper looks a bit worn now, and the lines that show where it’s been folded are actually tearing up a little, but the picture of our baby, with his big grey eyes and his happy smile, is as clear and bright as I remember it. My heart fills with yearning as I look at him, and I wonder whether the feeling of loss will ever go away. Our sweet tiny baby. I wonder how accurate this drawing is; Peeta painted our son to be a miniature version of me.

“Peeta, why did you draw his eyes grey? Did you see them?” I ask curiously.

He shakes his head, his eyes never really leaving the road. “No. No I didn’t. But that’s the only colour I can imagine them to be,” he replies.

“Why?”

“Because I love our baby as much as you. And I never loved anything so much in my life that didn’t have grey eyes.”

I don’t know what to reply. All I know however is that I don’t think I can live without this man anymore. “Please don’t take me home just now,” I plead. “Please just drive around for a bit. I want to stay here with you.”

At this request Peeta drives down a quiet street to a side entrance of a tiny park, where he stops the car and leans in to kiss me softly. “I’m sorry that I ever made you think that what happened to Gabriel was your fault,” he says. His hand moves towards my belly, and as he strokes it gently, I feel like my heart is going to burst from all the emotions that are taking over it. 

“How can it be otherwise?” I sob, “I was supposed to keep him safe...”

“And you did keep him safe,” he answers as he raises my shirt to press tiny kisses on my belly. “You kept him safe for nine months. All throughout his short life Gabriel was safe and happy and warm inside his mommy. How could I possibly blame you for something like that?”

I’m hiccuping so hard that I am hardly able to meet his lips when I pull his face towards me for a kiss. “I wish Gabriel could have met his Daddy,” I whisper as his once more I feel his arms embrace me. I’m safe.

“I will meet Gabriel one day. I know it. Both of us will, but I hope and wish and pray that until that day comes, I get to spend all of my life with his mommy,” he replies, moving back to meet my eyes. “I love you,” he continues as he traces my jaw with his hand.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I love you too,” I reply, “but is it enough?”

He doesn’t answer for a minute, but then he shakes his head. “I never stopped loving you, and I still fucked up, so no, I don’t think so. There is a lot of effort and a lot work that we need to do. But I think we can get there one day, don’t you?” he asks hopefully.

He’s right, there is a lot of work to do. We need to start from the beginning, rediscovering each other, loving each other but also falling in love again. But as I look at his yearning, gentle face, I don’t hesitate for a minute. 

“Yes. I think we can. And we will” I reply.

Let anyone try to stop us.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it - the final chapter (well - minus the epilogue!) I hope you like the resolution of it … more notes at the end :).

Slowly, steadily, and with the help of an embarrassing number of sessions with Cinna, Peeta and I start our relationship over. Cinna’s help does not change our life, it does not eradicate our problems, our regrets, or our sorrow, but his work with us provides us with the tools we need to teach ourselves how to cope. He is stern when needed, patient …. always, and strict when he asks us to follow up on a breakthrough; but through his methods we learn to to talk, to listen to one another, to respect not only our individual need for space, but also the equally important need for comfort and touch. We take our relationship to the very beginning, taking the time to get to know each other and to slowly fall in love again, through long walks, even longer talks and intimate periods of silence which often provide the comfort and peace that we both crave.

During this time, we also keep our physical relationship to a level that would make Father Plutarch and the Vatican proud. During a first, awkward conversation, Peeta had admitted that sex for now was something that he was not really ready for, and that it still carried with it a huge emotional baggage that he believed would be a bit too much for what he called _“our marriage - beta version”._ Even though it does sting my pride a little bit, I can’t help but agree with him, especially since we both remember vividly that the last time we made love was when I was still heavily pregnant with Gabriel. What with that memory, as well as the sporadic flashes I get of Peeta almost sleeping with another woman, I readily agree to take things slow and to relish this time of unexpected, and much missed simplicity. In the meantime, the divorce papers, still unsigned, remain in the drawer, where we both agreed to keep them as a reminder of the hard work needed to keep our marriage afloat.

Peeta still lives in a rented flat, but he spends most evenings with me, and BBC World is once again reinstated in our home. Through Cinna’s coaching, encouragement, and oh-so-fancy methods, Peeta and I make sure to have a serious talk every day, with conversations ranging from _“Katniss, we need to talk about this. You’re being hurtful.”_ to _“Shut up and listen and stop being an asshole!”_ , depending on the mood and stress level of either of us. We go out in the weekends, many times to walk in the park and update each other on our day. When tips are good at the coffeeshop, Peeta sometimes treats me to a movie, or to a hotdog on a bench in the old city centre. What with the mortgage, the rent on his flat and the therapy sessions with Cinna, there is never really much money to spare, but we try and share whatever we can. Peeta has even set up a candy jar on the kitchen table with a label saying _“Save Our Marriage Fund! :)”_ and we both make sure to place any extra change, tips or cash saved at the end of each week in it to help out in the expenses. 

Madge and Gale, as well as Finnick and Annie, seem to have sensed that we are hard up, and invite us to dinner at least once or twice a week. Our married friends can’t understand what is really going on between us but we use our time with them to learn and to see what our marriage might be able to benefit from, apart from free dinners. From Johanna and Thresh, who have finally started to date, we learn to unwind and have some mindless fun, and to actually enjoy for the first time the benefits of dark corners in clubs where we end up making out like teenagers. They’re confused, but in a way so are we, so when they ask for updates, we simply reply that _“we’re getting there, very slowly”_. There is not much else to say. 

Indeed, we _are_ getting “there” - to that point where Peeta will once again be my husband, where we’ll be unburdened from our guilt, or at least, able to cope with it together. For the first time in many many months, my thoughts are almost always about my husband, wondering what he’s doing, smiling at a some silly memory of something related to him, intrigued by some thought he would have shared, or mentally taking note of some habit or quirk of his that I never seemed to have noticed. More and more often I find myself thinking of just how incredibly handsome he is, and how each touch and smile from him makes my heart flutter like that of a schoolgirl. I’m not even sure I was so smitten when we first met - all I know now is that I am increasingly feeling drawn to him, understanding him, respecting him, loving him.

And now, after many months of hard work, we find ourselves in his parked car in broad daylight, hands linked together as we apprehensively stare at the apartment block towering above us. Pushed and encouraged by Cinna, we face our hardest test to date. 

“Are you ready?” I ask weakly.

“No. Are you?”

I shake my head and twist to look at the massive ficus that covers most of the back seat. “Not even close, but there is no way we can go back home with that plant,” I reply with a small grin as I try to lighten up the mood. 

Peeta remains sombre as he peers out of the window. Delly and Thom had their baby three months ago, and it took us all this time, together with much talking, arguing, crying and role playing with Cinna to finally gather the courage to visit them and the baby. I am doing this for Peeta. If it were up to me, I would have met Little Ben on his wedding day and would have been perfectly content about it. But I know that Peeta wanted to see him very much, even though he had not said so directly. After I found him a number of times browsing Delly’s photo albums on Facebook and looking wistfully at the baby, I decided to take matters in my own hand and to do something just for him. 

We were not brave enough to enter a baby store, but by the time we chose the plant to give our friends as a gift, we were actually in good spirits. However, now that we arrived. the resolve of both seems to have melted away. I know that Cinna will never let us hear the end of it. 

“Peeta, I know you want to see Ben,” I continue softly, “ _you_ know you want to see Ben.” 

“I know I do,” he replies weakly, “and I’ve been feeling really guilty about the way I cut off all contact from Thom and Delly, but …”. He trails off and shrugs helplessly. 

The easiest thing for me would be to just nod and allow him to drive off, ficus and all, but somehow I don’t. I know he wants to see the baby, and to somehow be a part of the life of the son of his oldest friend. We’re learning once again that our marriage is an exercise of give and take. This time, I’m going to give. 

“Talk to me. Let’s work this out together,” I murmur as I rest my chin on his shoulder. “What are you feeling right now?”

He shifts uncomfortably, and I urge him on with a kiss on his cheek. Finally he lets out a deep breath and looks out of the window once again. “I’m jealous, Katniss,” he finally admits.

I mull his words over and nod. He’s right really. Ultimately, when I think of Delly and her pregnancy, and of healthy, growing Ben all I feel is a wrenching dose of raw, visceral jealousy. Before hearing it spoken out loud, I never managed to categorize it so clearly. “I understand, I’m jealous too,” I confess.

“Really?”

“Yes,” I answer seriously, “but that doesn’t mean that it’s right. Do you want to work through it like Cinna taught us?” 

He nods eagerly and grips my hand harder as we both shift to face each other. People pass by, but we don’t really pay any attention. “Who starts?” Peeta asks.

“Me, you’re the one who needs to get over this first. You know that I don’t plan on really getting to know Ben today.”

He looks at me earnestly and nods. “I understand. Thanks for doing … all this. The minute you want to leave, just tell me, even if it’s after two minutes,” he says, and I am happy that he appreciates the toll that this visit is going to take on me, and that he’s also willing to meet me half-way. 

I answer with a small grin, and brace myself to start off the exercise that Cinna had used with us in a number of sessions. “Ready?”

“Yes, go for it.”

“Ok, so who are you jealous of? Thom or Delly? Quick answers.”

“Thom,” he replies immediately.

“Why?”

“Because he has Ben and he is happy with him and Delly and they live together in the same home.”

“Ok...so do you want Thom and Delly’s flat?”

“Of course not.”

“So are you jealous of their house?”

“No.”

“Good, good,” I acknowledge and continue with my line of questioning. Cinna is going to be so proud. “Do you want to be married to Delly?”

“No!”

“So are you jealous of him being married to Delly?”

“No.”

“Good. Do you want Ben?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “No, I want Gabriel.”

“Is Thom the father of Ben or Gabriel?”

“Ben.”

“Are you jealous of Thom being the father of Ben?”

He smiles at me, and I know that once again, our therapist has earned all the money we’ve been paying him. “No,” he admits and leans down to kiss me. “Thank you,” he adds as he holds me tight in his arm. 

“Glad that worked,” I reply teasingly, before sobering up and moving closer to him. “My turn now, I need you to fire away and make me realise that I’m not jealous of Delly.” 

......................................................................................................................................

 

I find that I am prepared to deal with Delly’s happiness at seeing us, and with her hugs and bubbly enthusiasm. I am also well prepared to offer my sincere sounding congratulations to both her and Thom, who stands tall, quiet, and sympathetic next to his wife. But I am somewhat less prepared to deal with the sight of Ben, flailing happily on a bundle of blankets on the living room floor. I tear my eyes from him with an effort, and struggle with my tears as I walk quickly to the open balcony, looking down to the street and taking in huge gulps of air. When I hear steps behind me I turn around expecting to find Peeta, but instead it’s Delly, her eyes wide and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Katniss,” she begins, and I stiffen, ready to shut her up and drag Peeta back to the car, but she reaches for my hand and continues to speak. “I’m sorry, and I know why you stayed away from us all this time. If there was any way in which I could bring back your baby for you, I swear that I would. I wish I could have met Gabriel, I’m sure that he was a perfect, beautiful, sweet baby. I tell Ben about him, you know.”

My head snaps up. “What?” I gasp.

She nods and blinks rapidly. “I tell him about his friend Gabriel who’s in heaven and who will keep him safe with the help of the other angels, and I really believe it,” she explains, her voice breaking slightly. “But I miss you you so much Katniss, please do not blame me and Thom for what happened … please do not push us away.”

I grip the railings hard, and try in vain to swallow back my tears. “It’s not that I’m blaming you for anything,” I attempt to explain, “it’s just that seeing you and Thom and Ben...being the family Peeta and I didn’t get the chance to be... it’s hard, Delly. Being here today is killing me.” I close my eyes as I try to keep the tears from flowing freely, but I hear Delly’s shallow hiccuping next to me. 

“I understand,” she finally whispers, “but if you ever feel you want me as your friend, know that I will always be there, waiting for you.” I open my eyes and find myself staring at the earnest, sweet face of Delly. I do feel bad for cutting her out of my life like this - and I actually know that had the circumstances been different, she would have been a great source of support for me during this past year. I do miss her cheerful, optimistic outlook in my life, and if I had to be honest with myself, she is right. What I’ve actually been doing so far is blaming her for being happy while I was miserable. It’s not her fault I lost my child, and yet I treated her as if she stole my Gabriel’s life to give to Ben. I cringe at the actual awfulness of the thought. 

“I promise to try, please be patient with me, Delly” I reply softly. She nods happily and I conjure up what I hope passes for a smile while I nod towards the living room. “Maybe we should go back to the boys?” I suggest lightly. 

As Delly and I enter the living room, I stop short when I see Thom hand over Ben to Peeta. He is visibly trembling as he holds the baby, and the yearning and want in his eyes is so great that I’m torn between running to him and gathering him in my arms and just running away to the car. Almost as if she could read my mind, Delly squeezes my hand tight. “Give him a moment,” she whispers and I nod tersely, unable to tear my eyes away.

“Hello buddy,” Peeta coos as he rocks the little guy gently. “I’m your Uncle Peeta, and I think that you are very, very cute,” he continues as he fawns over Ben, who is blinking rapidly and smiling widely at him. 

“He’s a cheerful little fellow, isn’t he?” I blurt out with a squeak from the safe distance where I stand with his mother. 

“Just like your Mama, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Peeta chuckles as the baby flails his arms happily. He looks at me, his look softening with apprehension and so much love that it somehow dulls the heartache I’ve been feeling since we entered this apartment. Somewhat.

Fifteen minutes later I find myself in his arms outside the building, shaking with emotion as he whispers soothing words in my ear. He thanks me for allowing him to reconnect with his friend, for being so brave, and he whispers over and over again how much he loves me and how we will get through this nightmare together. Before too long, my shaking stops, my breath evens out, and I am able to answer to his whispers with assurances of my own love and commitment to him. I mean every word. In moments like this, I feel that there is nothing that he and I cannot overcome together. 

....................................................................................................................................................

 

It is only a week later that I finally get confirmation of that last statement. It takes me a second or two to remember what day it is, and less than five to curl myself in a ball under the sheets and to sob bitter, unhappy tears. Peeta and I had tried to prepare ourselves in the past days, and we had both agreed to keep as busy as possible and to work longer so as to distract ourselves until we could meet in the evening. 

Thus I know that the fact that I’m bursting into the coffee shop, my red eyes covered in large sunglasses, not more than than two hours later, is a major deviation to the original plan. However, one must also take into account that tiny matter of me not giving a fuck about it. 

Peeta is in the kitchen, pale and sallow as he is prone to be after a sleepless night. The minute I enter the kitchen and remove my sunglasses, his own puffy eyes meet mine and within a heartbeat we are clinging to each other in a sobbing mess. 

Gabriel would have been one today. 

“I can’t deal with it, I can’t,” I sob in his shoulder, “I went to work but I got sent home because I was absolutely useless and I pretended to have a migraine and I need you help me get through this!”

Peeta says nothing but manages to squeeze me even tighter to him. It’s his brother, Barley, who speaks up. “Peeta, take the rest of the day off, you’re useless here, too. Stay with your wife and survive the day, bro,” he tells him sympathetically.

“Are you sure?” he asks him, even though as he speaks, he is already detaching himself from me and removing his apron.

“Very sure. Naan is coming over in half an hour,” Barley replies. Peeta looks at him in surprise and he shrugs sheepishly. “We kind of expected this to happen,” he adds. 

As soon as we’re out of the coffee shop and in the square, we close our eyes and breathe deeply, envious of the people walking around us who live a life where today is not the anniversary of their baby’s birth...and death. The sun shines brightly and I scowl at it fiercely. My baby’s death deserves grey clouds. 

“How are we going to get through today?” Peeta suddenly asks helplessly.

“Together,” I answer determinedly as I lead him to the car. “We were stupid to even consider going through the motions without each other.”

“Should we try call Cinna to fit in a special session?” he proposes as he fastens the seatbelt in the passenger seat, “or maybe drive around, or drive to the beach?”

I shake my head and think of the idea that had been brewing in my head for some time, but which I never had the courage, for a number of reasons, to share with him. “No Cinna today,” I reply as I turn on the car and shift it to gear. “Instead we’re going to say hello to our son.” 

The little chapel, an hour or so outside the city, is cool and quiet when we enter it. The stained glass windows direct the sunlight towards the main altar, creating a rainbow of colours that adds on to the serenity of the place. The chapel is open to all denominations even though the side altars, and the statues of a myriad of saints, seem to clearly denote the influence of the Catholic community of nuns that maintains it. It seems to be a place for worship and comfort for the small suburban community that lives around it, a little oasis of peace that I discovered by chance a few months ago when I offered a lift home to a colleague after her car broke down. Her startled look as a response had been priceless. After dropping her off, I had walked around the little town, until I found this tiny church, and I immediately thought about bringing Peeta for a visit. 

As he visibly relaxes upon entering the chapel, and turns to me with a grateful smile, I get the confirmation I need that this was a good idea. I envy his immediate reaction to this place, and the solace that smoothes his features, as we slowly make our way to a side altar. As we approach it and my eyes get used to the dimmer lighting, I notice that it depicts a scene of an angel and what I presume to be the Virgin Mary. Peeta and I had argued so often about the biologically impossible mechanics of a virgin giving birth that this scene is one that is very recognisable, even to an atheist heathen such as myself.

“That’s the angel Gabriel,” Peeta breathes in reverent wonder, as he genuflects and makes the sign of the cross. 

“I know, I learned that from you,” I reply with a little smile. 

Peeta reaches for a wick and lights a candle in front of the scene, and bows his head in prayer. I snuggle to him and bury my head in his shoulder as I see his lips moving soundlessly. “Please say hi to Gabriel for me,” I murmur sadly as I feel his arms encircling my waist. I wish I believed that our son could actually hear us. I wish I believed that he was somewhere looking out for us. I wish that my heart could one day open itself up to such possibilities. 

“Why don’t you speak to him yourself as well?” Peeta whispers softly as his embrace tightens. 

“Because I don’t know how, Peeta. I’m not like you … I don’t know where my baby is,” I reply dejectedly. 

“It doesn’t matter where you think he is, close your eyes and imagine him before you and just tell him what your heart is asking you to say,” he explains gently.

I stare at the lit candles for a minute, thinking about what Peeta just told me. I try to remember my baby’s still face, his closed eyes, and I remove from my mind the tears, the pain, the anger and the exhaustion that also formed part of that tragic day. Before I even realise what I’m doing, I light a candle myself, lean back into my husband’s arms and close my eyes.

“Goodnight, Gabriel. Mommy and Daddy love you. Sleep tight, sweet baby,” I whisper. And in that moment, with our two candles showing our son the way home, Peeta and I finally say goodbye. 

That night, we find ourselves, and each other, in a tangle of sheets, limbs, breaths, kisses and moans of _I love you...oh God... oh GOD!! I love you!_ We hadn’t made love in over a year, but every touch, every kiss and every whisper brings with it the sense of familiarity, comfort and delirious pleasure that only so many years together could lead to. Peeta does not let go at first, trying hard to control himself as he pleasures me over and over again. Finally, spent and satiated from his enthusiasm, I grab his face and join his lips to mine in a deep kiss. “Come for me, love,” I plead. To my surprise, he withdraws suddenly, spilling his seed on my stomach as he buries his face in my neck. When he finally recovers enough to face me, the confusion must clearly show in my face. 

“Not until we both want to,” he explains. “Not until we both want to try again and we both want it more than anything else in the world.”

He’s right, of course. This time round, he’s willing to wait for me. And I love him all the more for it.

The next morning, my alarm goes off far too early, and Peeta and groan as we reach out simultaneously to turn it off. There is nothing I would like more than to spend the morning having glorious reconciliation sex with him, but at the rate I’m going, I’m surprised that I still haven’t been fired from my job. All I know is that I don’t feel like writing snarky opinion pieces and blog entries today. And I blame it all on Peeta and his fucking ability to make me happy again.

“Come back home,” I whisper, as our fingers lazily trail each other’s back. “Come back home and be my husband again,” I plead as our lips meet in feathery kisses. 

“Do you mean that? Really?” he breathes as his face breaks into a smile. 

“We’ve been living apart for nine months, working to get to this point for so long now... I want you to come back, I deserve to have my husband again,” I reply as I cling to him. I feel, rather than see Peeta’s happiness at my proposal and by the time he nods yes, I’m already crying out in absolute joy as I feel him once again inside me. 

With some effort, and a very quick shower that is rendered chaste by issues of time, I drive Peeta to the coffee-shop where he takes on the morning shift, and promise to pick him up after work. Just before he leaves the car he turns to me for a kiss. “I promise you that I will never stray again, Katniss. I now know what it is like to live my life without you, and I never ever will do anything to jeopardize our marriage again,” he declares seriously.

I kiss him gently and cup his cheek in my hand. “And I will never give you any reason to believe that hurting me so much could possibly be excusable,” I reply in the same tone. “No more fuck ups between us. You and I - we’re in this together ok?” 

He nods his agreement and finally his handsome face breaks into a smile. “I wish I could marry you all over again,” he says. “No Church, no flowers, no choir. Just you and me, as you had wished it to be.” 

An idea comes to my mind, and I grin slyly at him. “Well, maybe something can be arranged,” I reply with a wink. 

.................................................................................................................................

 

“Till death do us part!” I declare as I rip our divorce papers in two and hand them to Peeta.

“Till death do us part,” he repeats, as he mimics the action and finally tosses the divorce papers in the little fire that we have lit for warmth. We’re on the beach - alone, snuggled in hoodies and blankets and with the sound of the waves providing the background music for our impromptu exchange of vows. “This is perfect,” he murmurs as he nuzzles my neck.

“I told you so. You were the one who wanted to the whole royal wedding fanfare,” I tease, bursting into giggles as he gives me a mock reproachful look. “I’m kidding. I loved our wedding, and I love tonight, and I love you. This is what counts,” I add. 

Peeta seems to agree with this assessment, and proceeds to show me just how much he does with a lingering kiss. I respond with equal fervour and soon we are lost in each other, savouring each other’s warmth, taste, smell. He always smells of bread, I think as my I feel my lips curl upwards in a smile. However the taste of bread reminds me -

“I’m burning the bread!” I yell as I push him off me and reach to aluminium wrapped garlic bread that I had placed over the flames to warm. The wrapping is really hot, and my fingers burn at the contact. “Jesus Fu-”

“Katniss!!”

Oh right. Catholic husband. No blasphemy allowed. 

Goddamnit. 

“Sorry,” I reply sheepishly. “It’s just that I burned your bread. I’m sure it's turned to toast now!” I unwrap the aluminium foil and gingerly cut off a piece. “Is it ruined?” I ask as I feed him the bit of burnt crust.

He shakes his head and cuts off another piece to feed it to me. “No,” he replies, “I actually think it’s perfect, Katniss.”

And as I taste his bread, I smile. And as his presence brings about a sudden warmth in my heart, I believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure how or why, but this story needed to be told. I hope you don’t think that it was rushed, but I didn’t want to prolong the angst, and in my head, this version of P and K needed each other to get over their loss, and introducing other characters to keep them apart did not seem to make sense (in my opinion). So I hope this explains why in the end I chose to turn it into a little ficlet instead. 
> 
> I will post the epilogue before long (I hope!) and it will give you a glimpse of the future that awaits them :).
> 
> A big thank you as always to my friends sponsormusings, salander-jade, jeeno2 and bigbigbigday006. Go speak to them to know why I love them :).


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue

Sandalwood.

This is what I smell as I kiss her warm cheek, her soft hair, her tiny, perfect fingers. The fresh smell of sandalwood, together with a hint of something sweet and unique that is just her, fills our bathroom as Peeta and I towel her dry and fuss and swoon over her in a way that surely cannot be normal. But then again, I don’t think it’s normal for a baby to be so perfect and beautiful and warm and soft … and I once again get lost in nuzzling her little neck, as Peeta protests that technically he’s on bathtime duty tonight and he should thus get precedence on the cuddling. 

I grudgingly have to admit that he is right. As a result of a disagreement on the choice of soap during her very first bath when she was just a day old, Peeta and I decided to alternate bathtime duty, which really just means that the parent “on duty” gets to choose the soap, snuggle her and dress her up. Sandalwood is Peeta’s choice, while I still insist that lavender makes her sleep better. The actual bath is given by both, because seeing her bemused, indignant face as her tiny body hits the water is far too much fun to deny it to each other. Peeta’s chosen days are Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday while Monday, Wednesday, and Friday fall on me. We have yet to reach our first Sunday as parents with this arrangement, but we decided in the interim to try mixing the soaps on that day and see what results from it. I wonder how long it will take for our daughter to stop this nonsense. I also wonder if Peeta and I will ever stop being so hopelessly in love with her and manage to regain some dignity.

My husband and I have been parents for exactly six days, since last Sunday early morning, which happened to be also Christmas Day. I refer to her as our Christmas present, while Peeta of course calls her our Christmas Miracle, for obvious reasons. Her name, Alba Cristina, is a compromise between my very pagan choice of commemorating the sun’s rebirth through the winter solstice and Peeta’s unsurprising reference to Christmas. Such compromise is one that we have decided to keep consistently in all aspects of her life that might have a religious impact. Alba will not be baptised until, or if ever, she decides otherwise, after being exposed to both her father’s faith in God and my appreciation for science and greater rationality. We both agree that not subjecting her to the possibility of a God is actually denying her a choice that both of us had while growing up, and even though I suspect that Peeta’s mother, and her prayer community, highly disapproves, it is a choice that we are both comfortable with. The same community has, with difficulty, managed to get over Delly and Thom’s choice of buying the baptism gown for Ben through e-bay, so I think that Peeta and I will be absolved at some point as well. 

Of course it was Cinna who instilled this spirit of compromise between us. Ever since our reconciliation, we’ve continued to work hard to ensure that any important decision is taken, if not together, at least after consulting with each other, and after making sure that neither of us is unhappy with it. The decision to try for a second baby was not an easy one. I was hesitant, and Peeta was always patient, but there were still many times where Cinna had to remind me not to take such a step on the basis of the yearning in my husband’s eyes. During my individual sessions, he helped me get in touch with my desires and feelings so that, if the time ever came when I wanted to become a mother, I would be able to reach that decision alone. He kept reminding me that I should never have to feel as if I’m being guilted into such a choice by the obvious and lingering desire for parenthood of my husband. This time round, we were going to do things the right way.

It took around three years for me to feel ready. On our fifth anniversary, Peeta’s family, together with my mother and sister, as well our closest friends, decided to send us away on a trip to Belgium so that Peeta could meet his European relatives and discover his homeland. It was a trip that Peeta’s brothers had both done for their honeymoons, but Peeta and I had decided to save up instead to buy our apartment, a decision which I suspect my husband sometimes regretted. The generosity of such a gift blew us away, but our loved ones would not hear otherwise. In their eyes we deserved some time alone to be with each other and appreciate just how far we had come from the mourning, devastated individuals we had been less than three years before. 

The weeks spent in Belgium gave me the opportunity to discover my husband’s roots, to see his happy smiles as we discovered Brussels, cycled through little towns and hopped on and off trains that showed us endless landscapes of green meadows, pasturing cows, and red brick houses. Peeta looked just like the blue eyed, blond haired Belgians that surrounded us, and his efforts to speak the language immediately endeared him to to all those who happened to come into contact with him. I could easily imagine him as a happy boy, speaking French or Flemish, running around meadows and growing up in Belgium, so far away from me. I mentally thank his grandparents for deciding to move away after the war, and I thank whatever it was that possessed them to move to our tiny city and to continue their family trade there. I didn’t think I could love my husband more, until I witnessed him being part of a life that could have easily never interlinked with mine, and it was during that trip that I decided that I was ready to try again.

It was on a cold early morning in our room in a little B&B in Bruges, where due to the soothing sound of the water in the canal outside our window, I was lulled awake slowly in his strong arms. As I snuggled into him for warmth, I felt safe, brave, strong and totally at peace, and I realised that I wanted nothing more than to give a child, our child, the possibility to experience what I was feeling in that moment. That was when I kissed him awake and told him that his dream had suddenly become ours. 

I would like to say that Alba was conceived that morning, in the quiet and peace of Bruges, but science confirmed that it actually happened a couple of weeks later in Paris, in a rather cheap hostel we stayed in after catching a train to watch the European Champions League final between Bayern Munich and Barcelona FC. Because he was there namely as a soccer fan, with no particular affiliation to either team, Peeta was just ecstatic at being able to join in the fun, to yell and cheer with eighty thousand like-minded individuals, and to take far more pictures than can be considered as sane. As a result of an excessive number of beers, together with a post-game adrenaline rush that ended up affecting us both, Peeta and I had a particularly fun and … affectionate night. We found ourselves four weeks later, holding onto each other in a mix of tears, happiness, and terror as the telltale double pink lines confirmed what we had been suspecting all along. 

My pregnancy wasn’t easy. It can basically be described as one continuous email, text, and phone marathon with Peeta while we were both at work, interspersed with careful and emotional sex, excited planning on good days, and mutual reassurances on the bad ones. Our sessions with Cinna, which had decreased in number following our reconciliation, picked up again and many times only his calm demeanour and coaching methods could help me through the terror of what might once again happen to us. On very rare days, Peeta and I happened to break down at the same time, which led to evenings of both of us spent clutching at my growing belly, crying and begging our baby to be strong and healthy and to reach us safe and sound. The nine months seemed to last an eternity, but actually felt like a flash when compared to that endless second of silence until our baby drew her first breath and screamed in protest at having being pulled out into the world so rudely and without being consulted.

A week has passed since then - a week in which Peeta and I argue over bath soap, learn how to change diapers, and adapt our sleeping patterns to match that of a 7 pound bundle that has us both wrapped round her little finger. I don’t think we’ve ever been this tired, overwhelmed, unsure and happy in our lives. I’m pretty sure that Peeta has lost his bloody mind over the past week, and the only way to convince him to go back to work on Monday is to promise to set up a webcam on Alba’s crib so that he can keep an eye on her through his laptop during his shifts at the coffee-shop. In all fairness, there is also a strong element of self interest in this proposal - once my maternity leave is over, I will also expect and demand from my husband continuous webcam broadcasts of Alba’s morning activities. He has agreed with his brothers to take the afternoon shifts once I go back to work so that he can stay the mornings with the baby before dropping her off at Delly’s until I can pick her up on the way home. Delly is a self-employed beauty therapist, and has set up a small studio in their apartment which means that she can keep an eye on both Alba and Ben without much trouble. On some days, they will be joined by Madge and Gale’s 18 month old son, Jack, a development which Delly is all in favour of, since it provides Benny with playmates. I sense that this arrangement will work out perfectly, but it’s definitely not the only reason why I’m so glad to have patched things up with our bubbly, accomodating friend. . 

Peeta’s fawning pulls me out of my musings, and I shake my head lovingly as I look at him, beaming, glowing really, as he dresses up Alba after her bath. "Peeta, you bundled her up far too much, she looks like a pink marshmallow!" I tease as he wraps up our daughter in a blanket after buttoning her up in her tiny onesie. 

He doesn’t even miss a beat. “I’m not even close to bundling her too much," he replies as he happily reaches for a small package from the dresser next to the bed. “Guess what Daddy got you, baby girl? Guess? Daddy got you brand new mittens! See?"

As our baby looks at her father with a mystified, somewhat indulgent, look I roll my eyes and sigh. This morning I had asked him to replenish our stock of diapers since we were already running quite low. In the half hour that he was gone, I received pictures, a text and a voice mail detailing the pretty mittens that he had seen at the store and how he couldn’t possibly think of any reason why our baby should not have them. 

“Peeta, her onesie covers her hands already..." I begin.

"Nope! Not another word, wife," he answers with a grin, “no daughter of mine will greet the new year without her brand new mittens!"

It’s New Year’s Eve, and our plan is to curl up in bed, watch back to back episodes of Doctor Who and provide our daughter with milk, fresh diapers, and love in whichever order she deems appropriate. She definitely doesn’t need to greet the new year with new mittens. However, I’m not going to be the one to say that to my husband, not when I am currently being faced with a new, crazy idea of his to debunk. 

He is holding her in his arms, nuzzling her mittened hands with his nose and browsing channels on the TV. “So what will it be tonight? Shall we learn about the whales?” he asks her as he pauses on National Geographic, “or perhaps the big big lions?” Discovery Channel is showing a documentary about the serengeti, and within two seconds a rather close-up shot of a lion enthusiastically mounting a lioness causes Peeta to flinch and to protectively cover Alba’s eyes. “Maybe not the lions tonight, what about Cartoon Network, baby? Just because it’s holiday time?” he coos. 

I gently pry the remote from his fingers and lean down to give him a kiss. “Love, the bath knocked her out. She’ll be asleep within the next ten minutes. No lions or whales or anything tonight ok?”

“But the idea is for her to learn while she’s asleep!”

I have absolutely no idea what our baby could possibly learn from Cartoon Network, but I let that slide for now. “No, she will just rest and dream while she’s asleep. And until she wakes up fussing, her Mommy and Daddy will watch Doctor Who, eat pizza in bed and make out. Perhaps Daddy might even get a bit lucky if he stops being so silly,” I reply with a kiss and the best seductive look I can muster with Cartoon Network showing in the background. 

Peeta raises one eyebrow and returns my kiss with an eager one of his own. “Get lucky you say?” he asks slyly. 

“Hmm...maybe? You’ve been a good husband and Daddy this past week, you deserve some loving,” I grin back.

“And when can I return the favour?”

“In about five weeks, if you’re very convincing and I’m in the mood,” I answer teasingly.

Peeta pulls a face. “Just you wait,” he mutters with a fake scowl, before turning to Alba, who is blinking up to him with bright blue eyes that look intrigued. “You know what baby? Mommy is teasing Daddy! So Daddy will make Mommy … oh never mind, little one. Time for sleepies, don’t you think?”

Alba doesn’t seem to have any objection to that proposal, and scrunches her face to make way for a big yawn. He hands her over to me after making sure to tell her that he loves her when she yawns, and makes space for her in her crib by moving around the various stuffed animals that have amassed in the past week. There is one teddy, however, that doesn’t move. It’s the blue teddy bear that should have been Gabriel’s and which has his name embroidered on its paw. I don’t really know what possessed me to place it next to Alba’s head on her first night sleeping at home, but it was immediately clear that Teddy Gabriel was there to stay. Apparently, our baby is unable to sleep unless her forehead is touching its paw. Sure enough, as soon as I set her down on her side, she squirms and fusses until she feels the familiar fuzz of the teddy bear’s paw against the tip of her nose. Within a few minutes, as I sing to her and Peeta gently strokes her cheek with his thumb, she falls asleep, her tiny nose twitching. I’m not sure why this scene makes my eyes well up with tears tonight, but it does, and by the time Peeta wraps his arms around me, they flow freely down my cheeks. 

“My girls...I love you so much. You ok?” he murmurs in my neck.

I nod and swallow a lump in my throat as I lean back into him. “We will never forget about Gabriel right? We will always love him, and he will be part of our lives forever, won’t he?” 

Peeta’s warmth engulfs me as he holds me. “Of course we’ll never forget him,” he replies, “Alba will know all about him, I’ll draw pictures of him for her, and we’ll tell her that she has a big brother always taking care of her, looking down. Gabriel is part of our family, today and always, even if he’s not with us right now.”

“Tell me about him,” I whisper. “Please tell me where he is and what he’s doing. I really, really feel like I need to know right now.” 

Peeta seems surprised, but he squeezes my hands and holds me even tighter to him. “Gabriel is a very lucky boy you know,” he begins.

“Yeah?”

“That’s right. He went straight to heaven, having an absolutely fun time with little souls his age and being taken care of and loved by everyone as he waits for us to reach him,” he explains in a broken whisper.

“Does he play?”

“He plays all the time. He’s so so happy, Katniss. And he has also has special sessions with the Angel Gabriel, because he shares his name, and his mission.”

“His mission?”

“Yeah. The Angel Gabriel is a messenger, he announces things, and paves the way for what is meant to happen,” he explains. He breathes in deeply as we both look at our sleeping baby, and he kisses my neck gently again before continuing to talk. “I believe that Gabriel’s mission was to show us that we still had a lot to learn before we could be ready to be parents, that our marriage was not as strong as we might have thought it to be. His … leaving us... was what was meant from him, to pave the way for us to find each other again.”

“So you think that he was helping us...become better parents, for his little sister?” I ask as I sob quietly. “He wanted us to have a happy ending?”

“Yes, I really believe so,” he replies and I feel him smile as he tucks his chin under my neck. I turn in his arms and kiss him. When I pull back to smile at him and to thank him for making me feel better, I find that he has sobered up and is looking at me seriously.

“What?” I ask worriedly.

“Katniss, did you … I mean ... do you … feel like you got your happy ending? After all what happened? With me?” he asks, his voice faltering.

I don’t hesitate to reply. “No.” 

He starts and I reach up to cradle his cheek in my hand as I see his face going pale. “Peeta, I actually got something infinitely better,” I continue as I punctuate the last three words with soft kisses. “What I have with you, what you’re giving me and our daughter, is a not a happy ending, it’s a beautiful...wonderful... happy ongoing.” 

And as the years pass, I well up as I witness Alba as a toddler on her first day of school, with her blue Teddy Gabriel in her tiny backpack. I smile as I see her beautiful eyes open wide when Peeta tells her all about her brother who became an angel. I read her letter to Santa Claus, telling him that there is space in her stocking also for a present for Gabriel. And I feel my husband’s strength and love, unwavering, all encompassing, every moment of my life. 

And as far as I’m concerned, there is no sign of our happy ongoing ever becoming an ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, the end :). I cannot thank you enough for the warmth and the encouragement you have shown me while I was writing this story. I know that the subject might have been painful for some, and the plot frustrating for others, but the vast majority of you was still much kinder and supportive than I could have ever imagined! 
> 
> I can only hope that I managed to deal with the topic with the respect and sensitivity it deserves, and if I have inadvertently angered or hurt anyone, I truly apologise. As always I thank my friends bigbigbigday006/feeding_geese, salander-jade, sponsormusings and jeeno2 for making everything about this story better. If you like the ending, you can credit it to salander-jade - she made a request that resulted in what you are going to read.
> 
> I am never sure if or when the plot bunny will hit, but I’ll definitely miss interacting with you so do come say hello on tumblr (malteaselivesonanisland) … I like posting drabbles there sometimes as well :). I hope you enjoyed the ending … and big hugs to everyone!


End file.
